


Office Space

by Skasis



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BOOONE!?!, But also gruff frank, College Professors AU, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Frank Castle without the dead family, Frank Loves Pitbulls, Frank grunts, IRB proposals are a pain?!?! is that a tag?!?!, Intensely Requited Love, Jessica Jones is there, Karen is a gentle and fierce creature, Last chapter is 20 pages in Word and 10 of those pages are smut, Matt and Danny are assholes, Prank War, Trish and Jess and Karen are friends, bone?!, so much pining, soft frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skasis/pseuds/Skasis
Summary: Dr. Frank Castle is a notoriously misanthropic physics professor, and he has the Rate My Professor reviews to prove it.Dr. Karen Page is a young, idealistic journalism professor who sees the humanity in everyone.When the Liberal Arts building floods, they are forced to share an office. He's all order and precision and logic. She’s all chaos and curiosity and emotion.But eventually, that line they drew right down the middle of the office starts to blur.





	1. You Threw Yourself In With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks! This is coming from my Tumblr, in-real-life-there-is-no-algebra. I combined the first two chapters into one!

“Karen.”

Uh-oh. Frank was saying her name in his stern voice—low and slow with a hard edge. It reminded her a little bit of the way her high school calculus teacher, Mr. Grimes, an ex-Marine, used to call her out in class for doodling all over the margins of her tests. Except that when Mr. Grimes said her name, it never set off a tiny little tingle of pleasure at the base of her skull.

 Karen’s eyes stayed glued to her keyboard as she continued to type.

“Yes, Frank?” She kept her voice light and airy. She’d discovered, over the course of the three weeks she’d been sharing an office with the man, that the best course of action when he got all uptight and stern with her was to be as nonchalant as possible. This, of course, annoyed Frank to no end, which was absolutely delightful for Karen.

Clacking away with a little grin, she heard Frank sigh.

“Karen.” He repeated again, in a voice that demanded her attention. She exhaled loudly, taking her hands off of the keyboard. This was one of Frank’s little quirks—he didn’t like people multi-tasking while he was speaking to them. He wouldn’t have a conversation without eye contact and full attention—she suspected that this was either due to some old-fashioned idea about respect, or because his own ability to multi-task was practically nil. Which seemed ridiculous to Karen, who had built an entire career on her ability to multi-task.

She pursed her lips and looked up at him in resignation. He was sitting across the room from her, behind his own desk, arms crossed. And damn, if it wasn’t still a kick in the gut every time she looked at him. He was just so needlessly, annoyingly attractive. It was the combination of the hard jaw, the stubble, and those cable knit sweaters he wore that did it for her. And yeah, maybe it was weird to be turned on by his choice in sweaters, but he wore them so well. He managed to pull of this whole _rugged-sailor-fresh-off-the-boat_ thing that was unbelievably dreamy. She could just imagine him backlit by sunlight, hair blowing in the salty breeze, hoisting the mainsail (or whatever it was sailors did these days).

But now was not the time to be fantasizing about Frank as a sailor, Karen told herself. Not when he was looking at her with such disapproval.

“Yes, Frank?” Karen leaned forward with her elbow on her desk, slipping her chin into her hand and smiling sweetly.

“Why is your jacket on my side of the office?” He uncrossed his arms to point in the direction of the no-man’s-land that stretched out in the space between their desks. Karen lifted out of her chair a little bit, leaning forward to see the offending garment on the floor. When she’d arrived that morning, running late for a faculty meeting and in desperate need of a coffee, she’d flung it off without a care for where it landed. And sure enough, there it lay, one sleeve crossing over the duct tape line on the floor that delineated _his side_ of the office from _her side_ of the office.

“Oh my god, you have _got_ to be kidding me, Frank.” Karen groaned, rolling her eyes. “It’s like one inch of the sleeve! And you know how ridiculous I find this whole dividing line thing anyway.” She plopped back down in her chair with a thud.

“What’s ridiculous is your inability to keep your stuff to your side, Karen. We wouldn’t have had to implement the dividing line if you were better at organizing yourself over there.” Frank threw his hands up, vaguely gesturing at the disaster area that was her side of the office. He was sliding into full lecture mode, and for the hundredth time that week, Karen found herself cursing the Great Building Flood of 2018 for forcing her to be a captive audience.

Three weeks ago, New York City had experienced a prolonged and torrential downpour the likes of which it had never seen before. For a week straight, it rained with a vengeance. A cold, sharp, biting kind of rain. The entire university had been miserable—students trekking to class in seemingly-useless raincoats, janitors constantly wiping up wet and muddy floors, professors slipping on the stairs of the academic building. But nobody on campus—nobody—had it worse than the professors who worked in the Liberal Arts building.

See, all their offices were located in the basement, which was a cold and miserable place to work on the best of days. But over the course of the week-long deluge, it became obvious to everyone, with increasing horror, that the basement had not been built to withstand the kind of constant torrent to which it was being subjected. It started with a few leaks springing in the walls, then progressed to puddles amassing in the hallways overnight, and ended up with the entire basement being flooded waist-high.

There had been a panic among the affected professors, who had immediately rushed to figure out how they could save all of their research and miscellaneous work from being lost in the flood. Among those professors was Dr. Karen Page, who was in her third year teaching journalism.

To their credit, the university administration had been very quick to send in workers to salvage what they could from the basement offices. And they had immediately set about finding the displaced professors temporary work spaces for the estimated 6 months it would take to rebuild. Which was how Dr. Karen Page ended up sharing an office with Dr. Frank Castle, professor of Physics.

The Physics & Engineering building had some of the biggest offices, which was why they’d been chosen to bear the burden of the misplaced liberal arts crew.

And it was a burden that Frank was bearing with minimal—some might say non-existent—grace.

Frank did not like to share. Never had, and probably never would. He was very particular about his things—organized his space with military precision. His books were alphabetized on their shelf, his pens were sorted on his desk by color, and his workspace was always impeccably tidy. A tidy desk, after all, was the sign of a tidy mind.

And then Karen had breezed in, stacks and stacks of disorganized papers in her wake. In those first few days, just looking across at her side of the room had made his jaw twitch in irritation. Heaps of books piled everywhere, half-empty coffee mugs on every surface, highlighters rolling around her desk with their caps off. And she had this habit of coming in every morning with a jacket, taking it off, and then leaving it overnight, forcing herself to come in wearing a _new_ jacket the next morning, repeating the whole thing over again. She had, at one point, five different jackets draped over the back of her chair.

And Frank had put up with it, because Karen really was quite a lovely person (not to mention a whole heck of a lot nicer to look at than some of the displaced professors his colleagues had been stuck with). Or at least he’d struggled to put up with it—until the day that he’d walked into the office to realize that her chaos had slowly spread its way from her desk, pushing up against his own. Because there, on the ground in front of his own uncluttered desk, were three stacks of unmarked essays that did _not_ belong to him.

And that had been the last straw. Because no matter how sweet and friendly and pretty she was, Frank could not abide by having Karen’s detritus crowding him. That afternoon, during his office hours, he’d pulled out the duct tape and yard stick, finding the exact center of the room to draw a proverbial line in the sand (and a literal line across the office).

Karen had, obviously, hated it. It was such a ridiculous gesture—like something out of a sitcom. But Frank had brokered no argument, and so she’d resigned herself to living in exactly one half of the office.

But _god_ , could Frank be annoying about that duct tape line.

“There’s a reason the line is there Karen. And it’s to keep your things—like your jacket, for instance—from encroaching on my territory.” Frank was frowning, but there was humor in his eyes. Karen knew he totally got a kick out of enforcing the boundary he’d created.

“And here I thought the reason for the line was to annoy the shit out of me,” she groaned dramatically, pushing away from her desk to move the offending jacket back to her side of the room.

“Well, that’s just an added bonus, isn’t it?” Frank was smirking, and Karen cursed herself that she found that so damn attractive.

“Y’know, I’m beginning to see what all those reviews on your RateMyProf page are all about, Castle,” Karen tossed her jacket haphazardly into the corner and turned to Frank with a smirk of her own.

His face immediately fell into a frown. He knew he had a reputation for being a bit of an unreasonable ballbuster among the students—he wasn’t stupid—so he avoided sites like Koofers and RateMyProf like the plague. Not that he _really_ cared what a bunch of clueless, inept undergraduate students thought of him anyway.

Sensing Frank’s discomfort, Karen pressed on, crossing her own arms in an imitation of his trademark stance.

“Ah, yes. I think the phrases used were ‘unnecessarily exacting, taciturn, crazy about the freaking attendance policy’ and,” Karen paused to press a hand to her chest, “my personal favorite…’obviously needs a good lay.’” She finished triumphantly, watching in satisfaction at the little twitch of Castle’s right eye. She decided not to include the numerous reviews in which his students had offered themselves up for the task.

Frank barely managed to keep himself from sputtering in indignation. _Obviously needs a good lay?!?!_ What kind of absolute, idiot bullshit was that to leave on a professor’s review site?! Never mind the fact that he was considered one of the top scholars in his field, or that he wrote hundreds of grad school rec letters every semester, or that he spent hours preparing for his lectures! Nope—none of that mattered, apparently, because some asshole kid with WiFi thought he needed a good lay.

Maintaining an outward façade of unfazed calm, Frank raised a single brow.

“Oh, and I’m sure I can guess exactly what _your_ reviews say.” He leaned forward to put his elbows on his desk, ticking off on his fingers. “’Dr. Page is perfect and beautiful and so, so nice. She shits rainbows and little birds help her get dressed in the morning.’”

There was a pause, in which Frank looked far too self-satisfied. Then Karen threw her head back in laughter—a sound that went straight to Frank’s gut. There was something so damn attractive about a woman who laughed big and loud and carefree.

“Well,” Karen said, as her laughter died down, “you’re not that far off. Though I think it’s actually ‘she shits glitter,’ which is, strangely enough, accurate.”

Frank’s lips twitched as he suppressed a chuckle, hiding it with a scoff.

It was true—Dr. Page was widely beloved by her students. In the classroom she was charismatic and entertaining and knowledgeable. Outside of the classroom, she was always available to talk and give advice. And she took a genuine interest in her students. Of course they loved her, Frank thought, how could they not?

Though, to be honest, he sometimes wished they loved her a little less.

Karen’s students were always hanging about during her office hours, lounging on the overstuffed couch pushed against the wall between their desks, or else spread out on the floor like they owned the place. As far as he could tell, they were only there to discuss lecture topics and assignments around 30% of the time. The other 70% it seemed like they were just there to bask in the light of Dr. Page.

They would sit there, completely enraptured, while she told stories about her stint as a foreign correspondent for CBS news, or waxed poetic about the ethical plight of the embedded journalist as participant-observer.

The first few times he’d walked in on one of Page’s impromptu salons, he’d made his way through the pile of bodies to sit at his desk and try to get some work done. However, he’d quickly learned that it was impossible to tune out Karen Page when she was telling a story. She was all animation and flailing arms and dramatic pauses. It turned out to be quite difficult writing a paper entitled “Force Dependent Polymorphism in Type IV Pili reveals Hidden Epitopes” while Karen told the story about falling off an elephant while working in Phuket.

That, plus all of the curious stares her students kept sending his way, which were very difficult to ignore, ensured that he wasn’t able to get anything done.

(Had he been listening when Karen’s students all reluctantly shuffled out of the office and into the hallway, he would have caught several of them whispering about  how “oh my god, I totally ship Dr. Castle and Dr. Page together—is that weird?” Not that he would have known what that meant anyway.)

Eventually, he learned to just turn right back around and find someplace else to do his work when he saw that another session of the “Karen Page Fan Club” had been called to order.

Which actually reminded him that he needed to talk to Page about something.

“Hey, before I head off to my 5:10, I gotta ask a favor,” Frank stood up to briefly stretch and gather his materials for class. He missed the way that Karen, who had returned to her own desk to finish typing up an assignment, paused to admire the way his muscles bunched and moved under his sweater as he reached above his head.

“I don’t know if you’re in any position to be asking favors after your tyrannical handling of the Jacket Incident, Castle,” Karen pursed her lips.

“I’m only hard on you because I care, Page. I’m trying to teach you some organizational skills here,” Frank smiled at Karen’s loud scoff. “You’ll thank me some day, when you’re no longer living under a pile of ungraded papers and dirty coffee mugs.”

“Oh, a teacher’s work is never done, is it?” She rolled her eyes. “What is it that you needed, esteemed mentor?”

“I’m going to be coming back to get some work done later tonight—say around 8?” Frank reached for his briefcase, throwing it over one shoulder. “And I’m really behind on this article, so if there could be a distinct absence of Journalism 101 kids in here that would be great.”

“Can do, oh Great and Wise Arbiter of the Duct Tape Boundary,” Karen quipped, giving a sarcastic little salute as Frank backed out of the office, snorting a laugh.

It was 8:00 on the dot by the time Frank made his way back to the office. As soon as he turned the corner down their hall, he let out a frustrated groan.

Trust Karen to completely ignore his explicit instructions. Even from all the way at the opposite end of the hall, Frank could hear the riotous laughter emanating from their office. With the door cracked as it was, light from Karen’s Himalayan salt lamp casting a pinkish glow on the carpet of the hallway, he could hear her voice rising and falling in time with whatever story she was relaying.

 _God damnit, Page_ , he thought, jaw ticking in irritation, _I ask you to do_ one _thing._ Stalking down the hallway, he played with the idea of throwing open the office door and unceremoniously kicking everyone out—including Page—so that he could just get his fucking work done for once.

But as he got closer to the office, his ear picked up a familiar voice. Nasally, a little timid, with an out-of-place Midwestern accent. He knew that voice…

Stepping closer, now more curious than upset, Frank peered into the office through the crack in the door. He had to physically stop himself from groaning in annoyance. He _knew_ he recognized that voice—it was Kevin from his 10 AM class on Monday-Wednesday-Friday. And sitting next to Kevin was Darshan from his Friday lab. And next to him was Sarah from his Quantum Optics class.

 _Goddamn it_ , Frank sighed, rolling his suddenly-tense shoulders. It wasn’t enough, apparently, that Karen had to charm the pants off of her own students, but now she was on to _his_ students too. And his plan for breaking up the little party flew out the window as well, because the kids were obviously waiting there for _him_. And if he walked in now, he’d get pulled into helping them with whatever it was they needed from him…and he just didn’t have time for that.

Pressing the heels of his hands to his eye sockets until he saw little stars behind his lids, Frank resigned himself to another night of working in the library.

Why couldn’t Page be like every other professor he knew—anti-social and cynical? Why did she have to be such a damn people person? She could’ve just told her students that he wasn’t in the office, and that they should come back during normal office hours, but instead she’d roped them into listening to some no-doubt fascinating story about getting chased by cops in Berlin or bitten by a snake in Brazil or some equally-crazy shit.

It wasn’t until he was settled in a private study room on the 6th floor of the library that he came up with his brilliant idea. A way to get back at Karen—to annoy her just as much as she’d annoyed him. Something silly, something childish—something that would bother her _just_ enough to make it satisfying without doing any real damage to their tenuous friendship.

 Pulling out his laptop, Frank typed in “Rube-Goldberg Ideas” and hit “Enter.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Karen! Wait up!”

Hearing her voice shouted through the sedate silence of the library pulled Karen from a bout of particularly angry brooding. She stopped mid-stride, whipping around to see Dr. Foggy Nelson, looking red in the face and out of breath, running toward her down the hallway. He stumbled a little bit—barely avoiding a run-in with a group of students who were exiting one of the library’s private study rooms—and pulled a pained face. Karen felt a stab of affection hit her as she took in his appearance: unkempt hair tangled around his shoulders, glasses askew and slipping down his nose, tie coming loose under the brown tweed jacket he wore more often than he should. He looked like every stereotype of an absent-minded philosophy professor rolled into one, and it was rather endearing.

“My god, woman. I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last three hallways,” Foggy slowed to a jog, stopping in front of Karen with his hands on his knees. “Jesus, I’m out of shape,” he muttered to nobody in particular.

“Sorry, Fog,” Karen placed a comforting hand on his back, patting gently as he slowed his panting. “I was just…uh, in my own head.”

There was something in the way she spoke that had Foggy glancing up at her quickly. A tightness in her voice—a kind of forced approximation of calm that wasn’t anywhere close to fooling him. He took in her expression: jaw clenched tightly enough to give an orthodontist a heart attack, lips pursed, and eyes shining with what Matt and Foggy had long-ago deemed “The War Look.”

“Uh-oh,” Foggy stood up slowly, with the caution of a man approaching a dangerous animal. “What’s going on?”

Karen exhaled loudly, deflating her tensed-up shoulders. Leave it to Foggy to read her like an open book. She supposed there was no point keeping her irritation from him—he would find out what was upsetting her one way or another. Looking around surreptitiously, checking that nobody important was within earshot, she lowered her voice. “Fucking Danny Rand.” She whispered his name like a curse.

“Oh Jesus. What’d the trust-fund baby do now?” Foggy rolled his eyes. “No wait—,” he held up a hand when Karen opened her mouth to speak. “Let me guess…he tried to get his undergrads to call him ‘sensei’ in class? Or no—he tried to give them all ‘Chinese names,’ and then went on and on about how transformative his gap year in Hong Kong was when someone tried to call him out on it?”

Karen snorted out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “No—I wish. I’m afraid it’s much worse than a little cultural appropriation this time.”

Foggy could tell that she meant it. Usually when they were complaining about Dr. Daniel Rand, it was for mostly harmless things—he’d taken the last everything bagel from the faculty lounge or mispronounced the name of a female colleague he’d known for years (because she’d rejected his dinner invitation the week before). But this time, Foggy could tell, Karen was genuinely upset.

“Let me walk you back to your office, huh? And you can tell me all about it,” he linked his arm through hers and began to steer her out of the library.

Stepping outside, they found themselves bathed in sunlight. Blinking away the dark spots as her eyes adjusted, Karen felt a tingle of annoyance that she should be in such a foul mood on such a lovely day. Yet, in spite of the cheery sunlight, it was still penetratingly cold, and they huddled together a little closer for warmth. Karen dug her free hand deep into the warm pocket of her coat and began leading Foggy in the direction of the physics building (it had been almost a month, but she was still getting used to the change of accommodations). Despite the biting chill, campus was bustling. The quad was covered in students bundled up in groups, sharing woolen blankets and passing textbooks back and forth. The sidewalks were a jumble of skateboarders and pedestrians, trying to avoid collisions while still maintaining a brisk pace. And there were even a few students practicing hacky-sack in front of the dining hall (which was surprising, because Karen hadn’t seen anyone play hacky-sack since that scene with Freddie Prinze Jr. in “She’s All That”).

“So….the Danny story?” Foggy prompted, keeping pace with Karen’s quick clip.

“Do you remember how we went out to Josie’s a few months ago to celebrate Matt’s article getting published? And he was being such a bummer, pouting all night because he invited Elektra, but she never showed?” Karen asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Foggy didn’t mention that he remembered that stunning red dress Karen had worn—the one with the slit up the thigh—and how every head had turned when they walked into the bar together. Probably trying to figure out what a woman who looked like _her_ was doing with a slob like him. “But, uh, what does that have to do with Rand?”

“Well, do you remember that project I was telling you about that night? The one about the perspectival positioning of embedded journalists—how I wanted to research the complicated use of second-person pronouns to account for participant-observer witnessing?”

“Yeah, I remember. If I recall correctly, you were slightly tipsy and going on about Judith Butler and Barbara Dancygier,” Foggy smiled at the memory. “Sounded like a really great project.”

“Okay, first of all, I was _not_ tipsy, okay?” Karen yanked gently on Foggy’s arm, forcing him to look at her. She pointed an adamant finger at him. “When I’m tipsy, I sing ABBA. And I was not singing ABBA. I was just really excited about the project—which you might have _interpreted_ as my being tipsy.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Foggy smirked, deciding against reminding her that, later that evening, she’d actually started up a rousing rendition of “Dancing Queen” with the rather frightening-looking bikers the table over. “Questionable sobriety aside, still not sure how this relates to Danny.”

“I’m getting there. Jesus—have you no appreciation for narrative?” Karen stumbled into his side trying to avoid a puddle. The last thing she needed was to muddy her favorite pair of suede ankle boots on top of the Danny shit.

“I’m sorry. Clearly I’m a story-telling philistine,” Foggy conceded facetiously, “as you were.”

“Anyway,” Karen rolled her eyes. “For the past few months, I’ve been compiling research on the topic to prepare an official research proposal. I mean, I’ve been spending _every_ free moment cobbling together a lit review so that when I finally submit a proposal there’s no chance of it being rejected. I’m talking pronoun theory, witnessing theory, the works. This project, Foggy, has been my _baby_.”

Karen paused for emphasis, and Foggy made an affirming noise to show that he was still with her.

“Well, I’ve been collecting all of my research on my professional Google Drive rather than my personal, because it will mean less transfer when I finally start the project,” Karen paused as they reached the door to the Physics building, while Foggy held open for her. Unwinding her scarf and breathing in the heated air, she continued. “Problem is…my professional drive is connected to the department drive. Which means everyone in the department has access to it…” She trailed off.

Foggy stopped in his tracks as the direction Karen’s story was headed dawned on him, with sudden horror.

“Oh God. Tell me he didn’t.”

Karen made a humorless little noise and jabbed the elevator button like she wanted to jab Danny’s eyes out.

“Yep. He did,” she ran an agitated hand through her hair, yanking slightly. “I just sat through a two hour department meeting, during which Danny Fucking Rand proposed _my_ research idea to the Dean of the college. And—because it’s a _fucking brilliant_ idea—he was met with _resounding_ approval.”

“What the fuck?” Foggy barely managed to keep his voice down as they stepped into the elevator and hit the button for Karen’s floor. “You didn’t say anything? Call him out on it?”

“No—I mean, what was I going to do? I hadn’t officially proposed anything yet, and we all know that resources in the department drive are fair game for anyone. Plus, Danny has seniority; I’m just a nobody. I fucked up—I should have been more careful.” Karen leaned back against the elevator wall, banging her head gently against its reflective surface. “Plus, you know Danny’s the Dean’s little golden boy. His family donates enough money to keep the department funded _ad infinitum_. I mean, he has a fucking research library named after him.”

“Still—there’s gotta be something you can do. He can’t get away with this,” Foggy’s voice was hard and adamant. He was just as upset, if not more upset, than Karen. This was something she adored about him—his loyalty. He was ready to brawl 24/7 for the people he cared about.

“Well, the Dean suggested Danny stop by my office some time to get my opinion on some of his sources, so maybe I’ll give him a piece of my mind then. Scare him a bit.” Karen pressed the heel of her palm into her eye socket until she saw spots. “I’m just so…disappointed. You know, I left the journalism field because it was so ruthless and cut-throat, and I didn’t want that kind of negativity ruling my life. But it seems like I just went from the kettle and into the flame.”

“Karen,” Foggy laid a warm hand on her shoulder as they approached her office door. “I got your back on this. Anything you need me to do, let me know. I know some people who could do some real damage.” He raised a conspiratory eyebrow.

“Foggy, stop pretending that your Uncle Darren is a hit man. We all know he went to prison for corporate fraud.” Karen reached out a hand to turn the door knob and push the door open.

As she did so, she was faintly aware of a clicking noise, followed by a whirring noise, emanating from somewhere inside the office.

As she threw the door open, it took her a minute to figure out what, exactly, she was looking at.

“Holy shit,” Foggy whispered under his breath with childlike awe.

Her entire half of the office was filled with a circuitous series of ramps, tunnels, wheels, and swinging objects built out of what looked like her own office supplies. Pencils taped together with napkins (the kind she hoarded from Mama Fu’s) stretched between them to create little pinwheels; highlighters connected end-to-tip, forming a makeshift ramp; binder clips, laundry pins, and a plastic spoon all rubber-banded into a miniature catapult. Papers and pencils and glue sticks and books all thrown together in the most impressive Rube-Goldberg she’d ever seen.

She was so caught up gaping at the improvised machine before her, that it took her a minute to track the billiard ball on her bookshelf as it rolled from one shelf to the other—falling down, down, down. She recognized it as one of Frank’s makeshift paper weights.

“This is so cool,” Foggy was staring wide-eyed from Karen’s side, giddy. He’d never seen a real Rube-Goldberg machine in action—and this one was pretty unbelievable.

The billiard ball continued in its loop around the office, knocking down a series of binders that had been propped up on Karen’s desk. She tracked it on its journey, until it eventually found its resting place. Rolling across the top of her desk, the ball hit her little statue of Socrates (an office-warming-gift from Foggy himself) head-on. As it tipped over, she noticed a little piece of paper taped to the bottom.

Stepping over the now-scattered remains of the Rube-Goldberg—snagging her heel on a stack of spirals and barely catching herself from an impressive tumble—she reached for the paper.

Holding it up, she took in the small, precise writing. She recognized it immediately as Frank’s—he always wrote in these tiny little capital letters.

 

Hey Dr. Page,

The next time you hold the office hostage to entertain my students, I’ll do more than Rube-Goldberg your side. I know a lot of experiments involving fire.

XX Frank

 

Karen stared at the note for a moment, before bursting out in a laugh so loud it surprised even her.

“What? What does it say?” Foggy tried to snatch the paper from Karen’s hands, but she was double over, grabbing her stomach as her shoulders shook.

“Fucking Frank,” she managed to get out, clutching her side. “The dramatic bastard.”

She was so busy laughing that she forgot, for a moment, how angry she had been about the whole Danny business. All she could think about was how long it must have taken Frank to set the whole thing up—imagined him hunched over her office supplies, his giant hands taping together her pen collection with such precision. All because he wanted to tell her off for monopolizing the office the other night.

It was ridiculous. It was hilarious. It was so Frank—and it was exactly what she’d needed to brighten her previously-shitty day.

Of course, Karen realized, as she spent the next two hours cleaning up the results of Frank’s little prank (which, she noticed, he had managed to contain completely to _her_ side of the office), that this meant she’d have to get back at him. Frank had to have known that she wouldn’t take this without retaliation. Now, the only question was _how_ she was going to go about exacting her revenge.

 

Frank had a little spring in his step as he made his way back to the office. It had been two days since the execution of the Great Rube-Goldberg Prank, and he’d yet to see Karen in person. Their schedules had gotten a little wonky—he’d temporarily taken over an extra lab for a colleague who’d been ill, and it had overlapped with the few hours of the day he normally spent with Karen in the office. Plus, she had been leaving work much earlier than normal (he would later find out the only reason she had been staying late was to gather research for the project that had been poached by Danny Rand), which meant they hadn’t had any late-night work sessions.

She had, however, sent him a selfie of herself posing, glaring at the camera, in front of the remnants of his Rube-Goldberg. “You won’t know when. And you won’t know where. But I will get you for this,” she’d written. Frank had chuckled out loud during the department meeting when her text came through, drawing the curious looks of his colleagues (who were not used to seeing Frank show any sense of humor). He’d hesitated for a moment, then saved her selfie to his camera roll. He couldn’t help it—she looked so cute with her arms crossed and an annoyed look on her face (which was slightly undermined by the upturned corner of her mouth).

Opening the door to the Physics building, he was looking forward to the verbal sparring session with Karen that he knew awaited him. It was strange how only a few days without talking to Karen—arguing with her about the stupid duct tape boundary or how many cups of coffee she could drink before it became dangerous to her health—had him on edge. Made him feel slightly untethered. Frank was a man who took comfort in routine, and Karen (somehow, sneakily, without him noticing) had become his routine. He’d grown accustomed to walking into the office (stepping over her coat, which always ended up on the floor), and seeing her bent over her laptop, clacking away. He was even used to the vanilla-scented plug-in she’d put behind her desk to cover up the wet, rainy smell they tracked in, and the way she would get a song stuck in her head for a week straight, humming it non-stop while she worked. (The week it was Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” was the longest week of his life).

If Frank truly stopped to think about it, he’d realize that Karen had become the only constant in his life. Ever since Curtis had opened his clinic for veterans suffering substance abuse, he only saw him a few times a month. David Leiberman had recently transferred to MIT to take a position in the CompSci department, which meant Frank only spoke to him occasionally over Skype. There was Maria, who he saw less and less because she was spending more time with her new boyfriend; and there were the kids, but he only had them for part of the week. Karen was the only person he saw everyday—the only other adult he checked in consistently. It probably should have made him nervous, how much he had come to depend on her company in the month they’d known each other, but it kind of felt good. Nice. To have someone he could share his days with.

Heading toward the office, whistling under his breath, Frank paused when he heard an unfamiliar voice from behind the door. A masculine voice. He was all set to turn around and come back after Karen’s company had left, but he hesitated when he heard the voice speak:

“Come on, Karen. Don’t be like that. I didn’t _steal_ anything from you, don’t be so dramatic. Isn’t 99% of scholarship all about collaborating? Sharing?”

There was a pause, then Karen’s voice, deadly calm.

“Collaboration?” Her voice was lower than he was used to hearing it—tinted with something dark. Frank felt a twist in his gut. “You think what you did to me constitutes _collaboration_?”

He could hear the male voice attempting to respond, but he was cut off. Frank knew he should walk away—that it was a private conversation—but he was rooted to the spot.

“I spent _months_ curating those articles—gathering all of the information I would need for a bullet-proof proposal. And yeah, it was stupid of me to upload everything to the drive, but you _knew_ that was my work. You _knew_ it wasn’t intended to be shared.”

“But I—“

“No, Danny. You’re not stupid. You can’t deny that you _knew_ you were poaching my work. That it wasn’t friendly collaboration. And you have the _gall_ to show up at my office, asking for _my help_ on a project _you_ stole from me.”

 _Danny_. A prickle of recognition crawled up his spine. He knew that name—why did he know that name?

“Look, Karen. What’s done is done, right? No use arguing about it now, because it isn’t going to change anything.” That voice—that smarmy voice. Frank knew it from somewhere. He felt a sharp stabbing of something uncomfortable at the idea of that voice speaking to Karen. “What are you going to do?”

Karen laughed bitterly, and it was a sound that rankled. Frank was so used to Karen’s carefree laughter—the kind that bubbled up out of her by surprise—that this hostile sound made him feel cold.

“What am I going to do?” Karen’s voice dipped lowly, and Frank had to lean forward to hear her. He felt a little bit guilty for actively eavesdropping, but it _was_ his office too. And, as strange as it might have sounded, he was beginning to feel like Karen’s business was _his_ business. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Danny. I’m going to be watching you like a hawk. I’m going to be waiting with baited breath for your research to be published. And I’m going to read it with a fine-toothed comb, looking for every minor mistake you make. And believe me—there will be mistakes. Because from this point on, you will get _nothing_ from me. All of the work you do will be your own; and you and I both know that you don’t know jack shit. And I’ll be waiting right there—patiently—to publish an evisceration of your article. I will rip it apart. I will make a fool of you. Do you understand me?”

Dead silence. Frank was pretty sure he could hear Karen’s quiet breathing if he listened close enough. As he stood there, frozen in place, it dawned on him: Danny _Rand_.

He _did_ know that name—had heard it muttered under Karen’s breath like a curse too many times to count. He was the “trust-fund man-baby with a penchant for cultural appropriate and social loafing,” to quote Karen, that drove her absolutely crazy. And from what he could tell, Danny Rand was _also_ the kind of asshole who stole other people’s research. The _prick_.

Frank briefly fought the urge to barge in and kick him out of the office—get him away from Karen. But she seemed to be taking pretty good care of him herself.

_Attagirl, Karen._

An uncomfortable silence seemed to drag on from inside the office, and Frank shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Finally, Danny spoke. His voice sounded falsely confident—like he was putting on a show of being unaffected, trying to save face. But he sounded uncomfortable, clearing his throat unsteadily. “Well, Dr. Page, if you truly won’t cooperate with me, I guess we are done here.”

Frank heard footsteps, and shuffled away from the door just in time for it to swing open, revealing a rather harried-looking Danny Rand. Head down, he brushed passed Frank without so much as a nod.

 _Tail between his legs,_ Frank thought with a smile. He stood outside in the hallway for a moment longer, giving Karen some time to recover from her confrontation. He knew her well enough to know that she’d need to take a few deep breaths after a showdown like that. He also knew that she wouldn’t want him to catch her off-kilter. Karen had her pride.

Counting to ten in his head, Frank pushed open the office door and tried to walk in like he hadn’t been standing out in the hallway for the past five minutes.

“Page,” he said gruffly, nodding in her direction as he headed toward his desk.

She jumped a little in her seat, startled by his entrance and still a little on edge.

“Frank,” she tried to cover up the little shake in her voice with a smile. Confrontations, no matter victorious she emerged from them, always made her feel shaky. What could she say—she was a lover, not a fighter. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in days.”

“That would be because you haven’t,” Frank pointed out, surreptitiously studying Karen from his peripheral vision as he unpacked his briefcase. She looked a bit rosy—her cheeks stained red and her lips trembling. But her eyes—they held something akin to pride. She was proud of herself for standing up to Danny. _Good,_ Frank thought, _she should be._

“Ah, yes, well…then I guess we solved that mystery.” Karen shrugged with a sheepish look, running a hand through her hair. “Actually, I think the last time I saw you was… _before_ the little show you put on with all my office supplies, huh?”

“Yeah, I got your text. So glad you enjoyed my little gift,” Frank chuckled lowly.

“Yep. Definitely enjoyed the two hours it took to clean up,” Karen raised a brow. “The place was a mess afterwards. Well, to be precise, _my side_ was a mess afterwards.” She pursed her lips, but her eyes were laughing.

“How can you even tell the difference between messy and clean over there, Page? You know, yesterday I almost tripped over a basketball on your side of the office. Where the fuck did you get a _basketball_ from?” Frank made an incredulous gesture toward her area. “And don’t tell me you have a regular pick-up game with your buddies on the weekends, Page. I’ve seen you trip while standing still—there’s no way you play ball.”

“Wha—I did not!” Karen sputtered indignantly. “I have never once in my life tripped while standing still. You are a shameless liar, Frank Castle! I’ll have you know I am actually quite the athlete.” She jabbed her finger toward him in an adamant gesture. “And I actually confiscated that basketball from one of my students. Wouldn’t stop dribbling in class.”

“Confiscated from a student? So you’re telling me there might actually be one, single, solitary student out there who doesn’t get along with Dr. Karen Page?” Frank was having fun now, watching Karen’s hackles rise. She sure was a sight when she got all riled up—it sent a pang of something strong straight to Frank’s gut. Something like admiration, but a bit more primal.

“We actually had a talk after class, and I think we came to a very reasonable agreement about the dribbling business, I’ll have you know. I don’t think I’ll be getting a flaming bag of dog shit on my doorway any time soon,” Karen narrowed her eyes at him. “And you’re just trying to get me off topic—we _were_ talking about the little stunt you pulled the other day. More _specifically_ , I was about to tell you how royally-screwed you are, because I am going to get you back.”

“Oh, is that what we were talking about? I thought we were just shooting the shit. I didn’t know we were talking about entering into a blood feud,” Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Karen lost her concentration for a moment, admiring the flex of his delicious biceps. Frank noticed the direction of her attention and felt a smirk working its way to his lips. Noticing his smug look, Karen’s eyes snapped back to up to Frank’s.

“Look, buddy. Every feud with Karen Page is a blood feud. I don’t know any other way about it.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Frank grinned.

“Because I am a force to be reckoned with, Castle.” Karen twirled a pen between her fingers, looking self-satisfied. “A take-no-prisoners kind of woman.”

“Damn right you are,” Frank nodded, his voice dropping into a lower register—one that made Karen’s insides clench. He was suddenly staring at her with such intensity, all humor gone from his eyes. Karen almost dropped her pen, startled at Frank’s change of tone. Startled that he’d a _greed_ with her, and so forcefully.

“Yeah,” Karen smiled, “damn right I am.” She paused. “Hey, you’re not just agreeing with me because you think I’ll call off the feud, are you?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

 

 A two weeks later, and Karen still wasn’t sure how she was planning on getting back at Frank. Not that it bothered her too much, not having a plan—Karen was a patient woman. She was more than prepared to wait for just the right opportunity to arise to exact her revenge. No matter how long it took. Though she was hoping that inspiration wouldn’t take _too_ long to visit, because Frank had been busting her balls nonstop about her vow of revenge. Every time he came into the office, he made a big deal about poking his head around the door theatrically, as if looking for a trap. He’d put on a show opening his drawers, tip-toeing around cautiously, checking his seat before he sat down—all the while sending Karen faux-nervous glances as he went about. He was such a sarcastic little shit about it, but if Karen were honest with herself, she would admit that she kind of loved it.

On the plus side, she hadn’t heard from Danny since their stand-off in the office. She _also_ hadn’t heard from the Dean, so she assumed that Danny hadn’t ratted her out for threatening him with academic, if not bodily, harm. So at least he wasn’t a fink, she’d give him that.

After their confrontation, Karen had felt a brief moment of annoyance at herself for letting the whole thing get out of hand. They were adults, for fuck’s sake, and highly-educated adults at that. They weren’t meant to be arguing and throwing shade at each other like bored housewives on VH1. All of that drama was meant to be confined to the undergraduate students, who were barely adults; not the professors, who were meant to be above such things. But all her self-doubt had flown out the window as soon as Frank had breezed into the office. He had a way of making her forget all of the things she had been so worried about moments before—sucked her into playful banter that made her feel lighter somehow.

As she shifted back and forth on uncomfortable high heels, a drink in her hand, Karen wished that Frank were with her now, if only to distract her from how awkward these faculty mixers tended to be. She could just imagine him standing next to her in the corner by the punch bowl, leaning over to whisper mean things in her ear about all of their least favorite colleagues. He’d probably make some snide remark about Dr. Wexler’s god-awful toupee, and Karen would have laughed gleefully as revenge for the time that he’d pinched her butt in the special collections archives when she’d bent over to pick up a book.

But when she’d left for the get-together earlier that afternoon, he’d informed her that it was his afternoon to pick up the kids and drop them off at their mother’s, so he would be late. It was a little weird to be showing up somewhere without Frank. Since they’d been forced to share their office space, they’d taken to carpooling to faculty events—unlike Karen, Frank actually had a car. It was mainly, he said, for driving out to the ‘burbs where his ex-wife lived. And Karen was never one to refuse a ride anywhere; it was just easier (and more eco-friendly) that way. Or, at least that’s what Karen told herself. And if she happened to breathe extra deeply while sitting in the passenger seat of his car, letting his _Frank_ scent envelope her, then that was just her little secret.

“Hey there, Doctor,” Foggy’s voice broke her from her reverie, and she looked up to see her favorite philosophy professor approaching with Matt at his side. She was a little surprised at Matt’s presence—she hadn’t been aware that he’d returned from sabbatical.

“Doctor,” Karen replied, nodding at Foggy. “Doctor,” she repeated, looking to Matt.

“Doctor,” Matt replied, with a gesture toward Karen. It was a silly little bit they did every time the three of them got together—borne largely out of Foggy’s obsession with M.A.S.H.

“You know, Karen, every time I think you can’t get any prettier, you go and outdo yourself,” Foggy smiled, gesturing to Karen’s dress. It was a pale blue, strappy number, and it nearly matched the shade of her eyes. “I would ask Matt to corroborate, but, y’know…” Foggy gestured at Matt’s eyes.

“Come on, Fog, it’s not nice to make fun of the blind,” Matt tried for stern, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Karen was glad for Foggy’s company, but things with Matt were a little weird. They’d had a kind of “fling” a while back—nothing serious, a few dates here and there. And she’d thought they were on track for a real relationship. She’d liked him a lot—he was thoughtful and intelligent and empathetic (even if, as a Religious Studies professor, he could be a little self-righteous). But then his ex, Elektra, had shown up out of nowhere, and he’d dropped Karen like a bad habit. As far as she could tell, the fling with Elektra hadn’t lasted long either—which, honestly, _serves him right_. The story she got from Foggy was that Elektra got bored of Matt’s baggage and took off to somewhere exotic, which prompted Matt to take his sabbatical a little early to “get away from it all.” He'd left so suddenly, neither Foggy nor Karen had known where he was until a few months into his trip, when he deigned to drop them a line and let them know he was still alive.

But now, apparently, he was back. And Karen still wasn’t entirely sure how to act around him. She wasn’t _angry_ at him, per se…it’s not like they’d really been dating. But she was a little bit hurt.

“So, Matt…” she started, a little awkwardly, and took a sip from her cup just to have something to do. “I heard you were working on your research with a group of monks. That sounds…fun?”

Matt chuckled, “Well, I’m not sure you go to the monks to learn how to party.”

“Hey, didn’t Jesus turn water into wine? That guy sounds like he’d be _great_ at a party!” Foggy held up his own cup in a toasting gesture.

“I was in Tibet, Fog. Y’know…Buddhists? So no water to wine, I’m afraid. Though I did drink something called _Chhaang_ while I was there. Not exactly Bud Light, but it did the trick.”

“You know, I bet more people would be monks if they promised to teach them the whole water to wine trick,” Foggy said, looking thoughtful.

“They’d get invited to more parties,” Matt pointed out.

“Get more chicks,” Foggy rejoined.

“Not that they would be able to _do_ anything with the chicks.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I man just likes to feel wanted, you know?”

Karen watched their exchange, shaking her head. Matt and Foggy were always like this when they were together—bantering back and forth like it was their job.

“Well, sounds like we better get the Pope on the horn, Fog. You’ve got some real effective PR advice to give out.” Karen made a sweeping gesture with her hand, as though she could imagine a billboard with her words written upon them: “Become a monk—never buy alcohol again.” Karen shrugged. “I guess nothing says religion like alcoholism.”

“The Pope _wishes_ he could get me for PR. If I were in charge, I’d definitely play up the Party Jesus angle. Not only is there the wine thing, but also the fact that he hung out with prostitutes. Sex sells, you know.”

“I feel like I should point out that we are all going to hell,” Matt shook his head. “Blasphemers, the lot of us.”

“Maybe _you’re_ going to hell, Matty. I do enough good deeds to make up for my transgressions,” Karen nudged Matt with her elbow, and he stumbled slightly.

“Pretty sure that’s not how Christianity works, Karen,” he righted himself, shaking his head.

“Eh, what does he know?” Foggy dismissed Matt with the wave of a hand. “Tell you what, Karen. When the Pope hires me on as a PR consultant, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Well thanks, Foggy. This must be what having real friends feels like.” Karen put a hand to her chest to show how touched she was.

“I don’t know why I hang out with you two,” Matt muttered under his breath. Karen stuck her tongue out at Matt, belatedly realizing that he couldn’t see it, causing Foggy to dissolve into laughter as Matt stood there looking confused.

 

And that’s how Frank found Karen as he walked into the bar where the staff mixer was held every year (chosen for its convenient location across the street from main campus). Laughing with her friends, head thrown back. Frank’s heart constricted suddenly at the sight, and he felt a whoosh of air leave him without permission. There, standing across the room, in a darkened corner, she looked like a fucking dream. Of course Frank had always recognized that Karen was attractive—since the first moment she’d walked through the door to his office, he’d had a healthy appreciate for the lines of her body, the depth of those blue eyes, the plushness of that smile.

But there was something different between the way a man admired an attractive woman he didn’t know, and the way he admired an attractive woman whose laugh he would recognize anywhere. It was different, knowing that Karen wasn’t just the kind of woman who turned heads on the street. She was also the kind of woman who picked up an extra bagel for you at the coffee place you like when she noticed you rushing in late for work; the kind of woman who wrote encouraging notes at the top of her student’s papers if they were having a rough semester; who looked at people she didn’t understand with empathy—always empathy—first, before reaching for hate; the kind of woman who stood up for herself, and didn’t take shit from nobody. The kind of woman you could talk to for hours, without even realizing the hours had flown by.

And that was special. That was more than just a pretty face. That was something Frank wasn’t entirely sure how to process as he made his way over to her little gathering of friends.

“Frank!” Karen said his name with such joy, it made a man feel good about himself.

“Hey, Kare,” he nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. He glanced at her friends. He recognized the blonde—Foggy—as the guy Karen got lunch with a few times a week. Nice guy, as far as Frank could tell, if a little bit scattered. The brunette, however, he did not recognize.

What he _did_ recognize was the way the other man’s back went ramrod straight as soon as he heard Frank’s voice. The way the man shifted subtly closer to Karen, until his arm was brushing the outside of hers. Yes, this was something Frank recognized instantly—the stance of a man who felt threatened, who felt the impulse to claim his territory. Which was, apparently, Karen. Frank’s brow furrowed—he didn’t like that idea.

 “Oh, Foggy, you know Frank.” Karen gestured to Frank with her cup.

“Well yeah, you talk about him enough,” Foggy grinned, and Frank noticed the tips of Karen’s ears blushing a little pink. “Nice to meet you in person, though.” He held out his hand for Frank to shake.

“And I’m Matthew Murdock.” Matt didn’t wait to be introduced, sticking his hand out with a kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. Just as Frank knew he would, Murdock squeezed his hand just a _little_ too hard in a rather juvenile show of alpha-male aggression.

“Oh! Matt, you’ve been on sabbatical, so you haven’t heard,” Karen placed a hand on Matt’s arm to direct his attention, and Matt’s face spread in a shit-eating grin at the contact. “Frank’s my new office mate. Well, I kind of _invaded_ his office until the liberal arts building is all dried out. So he’s gotta deal with me 24/7 these days.” Matt’s grin dropped, a change Frank didn’t miss.

“Oh?” He asked, “How interesting. I bet you’re just driving him crazy with how messy you are, huh? I swear, walking into your office used to be a real health hazard for me—not a very blind-friendly place.” Matt raised a brow as Karen wrinkled her nose.

“Actually, Karen’s not that bad,” Frank piped up, earning a smile. “We’ve actually got a little system going to keep it copacetic.”

“See, Matt! I’m _not that bad,_ ” Karen threw her hands up in triumph. “In fact, I think Frank’s beginning to rub off on me. The other day, I actually washed out all of my coffee mugs before I grabbed a new one.” She sounded so proud of herself, Frank didn’t want to point out that she’d only washed the mugs because she’d run out of clean ones.

“Well that’s character development if I’ve ever seen it,” Foggy said patronizingly. “Maybe in a few weeks Frank will get you to stop hoarding napkins and paper plates in your desk.”

“The man can’t do miracles, Fog,” Karen shook her head.

“No, I guess he can’t,” Foggy shrugged, “But you know who _could_ do miracles? Monks! If we taught them the whole water-to-wine thing!”

“Are we back to that, Fog? Haven’t blasphemed the name of the Lord enough for the evening?” Karen played at being exasperated. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity—he didn’t know what they were talking about, but he liked that she looked so happy. Foggy made her smile, so he was okay in Frank’s book. Matt, on the other hand, he wasn’t too sure about. The man had been gazing at Frank intensely throughout the exchange, his unseeing eyes strangely forceful.

“So Frank,” Matt spoke up, “you married?”

Karen and Foggy exchanged a look, confused about the sudden change of topic. Frank almost snorted a laugh.

“Uh, no, actually. Divorced.”

“Huh—kids?” Matt pushed.

“Two of ‘em. Lisa and Frankie.”

“Must not leave a whole lot of time for you to date these days, huh?”

“I do okay.” Frank’s voice was tight.

 “Oh, so you date a lot, then? Get around?”

There was a tense pause, in which Frank’s jaw ticked dangerously, then—

“Wow, Matt. You just met the man and you’re already trying to feel out if he’s single,” Foggy broke in, chuckling uncomfortably. “I know you’re desperate for some loving, dude, but I don’t think Frank swings that way.”

Matt snorted dismissively, and Frank’s lips drew down into a tight line.

Karen looked back and forth between Matt and Frank. Something weird was going on, but she didn’t quite know what it was. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. All she knew was that it was a little bit uncomfortable. And that she was thankful Foggy was there to cut the tension.

“Just trying to get to know the guy who’s spending so much time without our Karen,” Matt said lightly, shrugging.

 _Our Karen_ , Frank noticed. He didn’t like the idea of Matt trying to claim ownership of Karen, like she _could_ be owned. By anyone.

“Well, super weird get-to-know-you questions, Matty.” Foggy tried to break the edgy atmosphere with a laugh.

Karen was feeling increasingly out-of-place, so when the opportunity arose to dip out of the situation, she was quite grateful.

“Dr. Page,” a diminutive, grey-haired woman Frank recognized as one of Karen’s colleagues in the Journalism department suddenly appeared at her elbow. “So sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you might talk to my good friend Dr. Pike over there—he was asking about some of the work you did on that animal cruelty story on Phuket.”

“Oh, sure!” Karen felt relieved to be given an out. Turning to Frank, Foggy, and Matt, she shrugged. “Excuse me, boys. I’ve got some elbows to rub.” Frank watched her hair sway down her back as she walked away.

“Well,” Foggy rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes darting around the room. “I just saw them bring out a new round of appetizers, so I’m going to go grab a handful. Or two.” Foggy created his own little opportunity to escape whatever weird pissing contest Matt was trying to start with Frank.

 Which left Frank standing alone, in the corner of the bar, next to Murdock. There was a strained silence, in which Frank looked around for an excuse—any excuse—to disengage.

“You know, I’m actually glad Karen had someone looking after her while I was gone,” Matt spoke, and Frank’s head jerked in surprise. _Looking after her?_

“Uh, well, I don’t really think Karen needs anyone looking after her. Seems to take pretty great care of things herself,” Frank heard the tiny edge of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t like the idea of anyone thinking Karen needed _looking after_. It was patronizing. Karen wasn’t a child, and she wasn’t a belonging. She was a human being—and a pretty damn great one at that.

“I can see how you would think that,” Matt tilted his head in concession. “She comes off pretty tough. But when you’ve known her as long as I have, you’ll see that she’s actually very fragile.”

 _When you’ve known her as long as I have_. Frank knew the meaning behind that statement—it was Matt’s subtle way of proving how much better he knew Karen than Frank. Of bringing up the fact that they obviously had some kind of history together that Frank wasn’t privy to. It was a statement designed to stake a claim. But all it accomplished was convincing Frank how little Matt actually _did_ know Karen.

Sure, she was a bleeding heart. All compassion and gentleness. But only with those who deserved it. When push came to shove, Frank knew, Karen was one tough woman. At her core, that’s what she was—strong.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that, Murdock.” Frank clenched and flexed his hands in his coat pockets.

“Well I do, Frank.”

Frank wanted to say something else, but bit his tongue.

“You know, Matt, I think I see a buddy of mine over there,” Frank gestured vaguely to the opposite end of the room, then remembered that Matt couldn’t see it. “I’ll see you around.”

He walked away with a bad taste in his mouth.

 

Three hours later, and the mixer was starting to wind down. Dr. Wexler and his bad toupee were listing slightly to one side, looking a little more than tipsy, Dr. Nichols had already ducked away into the ladies room for her usual crying spell, and Dr. Ramirez had made his final attempt at getting a karaoke version of “Turn Around, Bright Eyes” going. So, in other words, it was time to wrap things up.

Dipping into the ladies before heading home, Karen noticed a neon pink flier taped to the bathroom mirror.

“Feel like you have an interesting life story? Something to say? Want to volunteer to help out your friendly, neighborhood Journalism 101 students?

We are now looking for volunteers to participate in a journalism project. 2 hour time commitment, sit down and have your story told. Sign up here to volunteer.”

And then there was a QR code posted below. If Karen were a cartoon character, she thought, a light bulb would have gone off above her head.

All this time she had been waiting for the perfect way to get Frank back for his prank. Something that would annoy the shit out of him. Something clever—that he wouldn’t see coming. And here it was. Finally.

She pulled out her phone, took a photo of the QR code, and started typing in Frank’s contact information.

 

 

 


	2. Made A Cross and You Lit a Candle

The first phone call had come three days after the staff mixer. Frank had assumed it was a wrong number—a squirrely kid calling to thank him for volunteering to be interviewed for some kind of project, and asking for the best time to set up a meeting. He’d politely responded that he had no idea what the kid was talking about, and hung up.

The second call had come while he was sitting in the office across from Karen. Ostensibly, he was meant to be focusing on his work, though in reality he had spent the better part of his afternoon distracted by the way his officemate kept tying her hair up and letting it down again—a nervous habit she took up whenever she was stuck with her writing. He’d observed Karen gather up all that golden hair in a bun, only to release it to drape down her back again, ten times in a row. Watching her, he’d felt the pull of something deep and warm in his stomach—it was the pale and delicate arch of her neck, the way her top button gaped to reveal the dip of her collarbone every time she lifted her arms, the little sigh that left her lips every time she brought them down again. It was heady stuff.

When the phone had rung, he’d been almost embarrassingly jostled out of his contemplation of her. His brow had furrowed when he’d heard a different voice giving him the same spiel as the first caller—“thank you for volunteering to sit for an interview with a student from Journalism 101; I am calling to set up a time to meet for a brief get-to-know-you session.” Again—albeit a little more gruffly this time—he’d responded that he had no idea what the hell the kid was talking about, and hung up.

He should have known, from the way Karen watched the exchange with such interest—her eyes alight with something akin to mischief (which Frank mistook for her standard curiosity). He should have known when she tilted her head, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, and asked (with all the innocence in the world) what the phone call was about. He _should_ have known. But he didn’t, because he was too busy thinking about how damn nice it felt when she looked at him that way—with that intense and penetrating attention.

No—it didn’t dawn on him until the fifteenth phone call, when he stopped himself from hanging up the second he heard the beginning of the pitch (it was obvious all these callers were reading from the same script). Instead, he’d finally just come out and asked “what the fuck are you going on about?”

As soon as the freshman on the other end of the line—Randy, apparently—had explained that Frank’s name and number were listed on a spreadsheet of volunteers to be interviewed for a project by beginning journalism students, Frank knew _exactly_ how it had ended up there.

 _Karen_.

He would have laughed out loud, but didn’t want to give Randy the impression that he found any part of their conversation entertaining.

Randy had also explained that the volunteer spreadsheet had been sent out to all of the participating students. And after the second time Frank had hung up on a kid, the students had made it into a little challenge, seeing who could call and actually get him to sit for an interview. They even had a sizable pool going to see how many seconds they could keep him on the line before he hung up. So far, Randy told him, their conversation had everyone else beat by miles.

Frank had sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance at what he was about to do. Cutting off a jittery-sounding Randy, who had been rambling about supporting growing students in their quest for knowledge, Frank agreed to the interview. In some strange way, it was his idea of being noble; of being a good sport. His prank had wasted two hours of Karen’s life, so he’d let hers waste two hours of his.

It had been painful, sitting in an overcrowded coffee shop and leaning forward into the mic to answer stupid, personal questions about his life that nobody wanted to know the answers to. Standard things, like “where were you born?”, “did you always have an interest in physics?”, and “does your family understand what it is you do?” But also some really fucking invasive questions, like “do you regret choosing a job that takes so much time away from being with your family?” and “do you ever worry that you’re wasting all of your potential to do real good in the world by locking yourself up in the Ivory Tower of academia?” The questions like those, which Frank assumed the kid had intended to be clever and incisive, he’d skirted around with vague and unsatisfying answers. He’d downed four cups of coffee just to get through the whole ordeal (which he wouldn’t tell Karen, as he was always riding her about cutting down on _her_ caffeine intake).

Afterwards, he’d written the whole thing off as a shitty, awkward experience the he would never have to think about again, and made a mental note to congratulate Karen on her clever little prank. But early the next morning, he’d received another call from Randy, who was so excited he could barely get a complete word out. The interview, apparently, had gone so well (Frank scoffed at that), that his professor had convinced the school newspaper to print a condensed version in their next edition. Randy just needed Frank’s permission to write it up.

 _The school newspaper_. Frank had felt the familiar shiver of divine inspiration crawl up his spine at Randy’s pronouncement. Karen read every copy of the school paper religiously—because _of course_ she did. Which meant that she would read every word he said…

Frank grinned. “You know, Randy? I think publishing the piece is a great idea. I was just wondering, could I add some last minute comments…?”

 

Which was how he found himself a week later, a copy of the latest school newspaper folded neatly on his desk, waiting eagerly for Karen to breeze through the doorway.

He barely twitched when she threw the door open with gusto, stomping into the office, annoyance smeared across her face.

“Ugh, I’m going to kill that man, Frank, I swear I am,” she spared a glance in Frank’s direction as she shrugged out of her coat. He noticed, with some amount of pride, that she actually took the time to hang it up on the coat rack (he’d been bothering her enough about using it). As she unwound her scarf from her neck, he took a minute to study her—cheeks reddened (and not in that wonderful, blushing way they looked whenever he caught her staring at him just a hair too long), mouth screwed up in a grimace, hands trembling slightly in what he assumed to be rage. She was glorious.

“Who are we murdering today, Kare?” Frank leaned back in his chair, templing his fingers under his chin as Karen pulled off her gloves with more violence than necessary. (These she threw on the ground under her desk—he’d have to work with her on that later).

“There’s no _we,_ Frank,” Karen dropped her briefcase with a resounding thud. “This is personal. I’m not sharing this kill with anybody.”

“I see. So who are _you_ murdering today, all by yourself, with no help whatsoever?” Frank amended the question with a quirk of the lips.

Karen shot him an irritated look, rolling her eyes.

“Who do you think?” She sunk into her chair with a groan, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Danny Fucking Rand, that’s who.”

“Ha,” Frank snorted a bitter sound, “It’s only 8 in the morning. How could he have done something worthy of the death sentence already?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what he’s done,” Karen shifted forward, planting both her hands on the desk in front of her, face ablaze. “Apparently it’s not enough that he’s poached my research project out from under me, but now he’s actually trying to steal my fucking graduate students too!” She balled her hands into fists, pressing them into the dark-finished wood beneath them. “Trish emailed me this morning that he’d approached her about joining his research team. He’s willing to offer her a $5,500 stipend per semester for her help.”

Frank jerked in surprise. He knew Trish—had been introduced to her a few times. She was a former radio show host who’d recently returned to school to pursue her PhD. in journalism. Karen had taken her under her wing almost immediately, acting as her academic adviser.

“Trish said no, right?” Frank didn’t know Trish all _that_ well, but he knew Karen. And she tended to inspire all kinds of loyalty in people.

“Well of course she said no,” Karen released a large breath of air, making a conscious effort to de-tense her shoulders. “But he shouldn’t have even asked her in the first place. He’s just doing it to get a fucking rise out of me.”

“Well, I hate to point it out,” Frank tilted his head conciliatorily, “but it seems like he’s succeeded.”

“Ugh,” Karen let her head fall to the desk with a gentle whack. “I know,” she grumbled, and Frank had to strain to hear her speaking with her face pressed against wood. “That’s the worst part, Frank. I keep playing right into his hand. Always will—because I’m an emotional creature. An easily-riled-up, reactive, emotional creature.” She shook her head, and her forehead made a little squeaky noise as it dragged across the polished wood of the desk.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have you any other way,” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop to think. And he would have felt embarrassed—would have tried to take them back or amend them—but the soft, warm little smile on Karen’s face when she lifted her head in response was pretty damn great. So maybe it had been the right thing to say.

“You know, Frank,” she was looking at him with something gentle behind her eyes, “that actually does make me feel better.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank cleared his throat, shifting in his seat and reaching for the nearest paper to busy himself, “if you weren’t so easy to rile up, _I_ wouldn’t be able to get my kicks picking on you either.”

“Yeah, yeah, Frank,” Karen waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Try to cover it up all you want, but that was very sweet.”  She bit her lip, watching him try to distract her from the way the tips of his ears reddened ever-so-slightly by looking down and futzing with the papers in front of him.

She took the moment to admire him while he was preoccupied—allowing her eyes to drift over the hunter green sweater that fit so snugly around his broad shoulders, darting down to appreciate the way his rolled-up sleeves left his forearms bare.  He was wearing a pair of glasses at the moment—a rare sight, as he only wore them when he couldn’t be bothered with his contacts in the morning—and they only worked to accentuate the handsome lines of his face. She notice that he’d shaved his stubble the night before, leaving his sharp, square jaw clean and smooth. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to ghost her fingers over the edge of that jaw—tilt his head up to kiss those lips.

Karen shook her head, clearing the thought from her mind. She’d long ago come to terms with the fact that she had a crush on Frank, but that didn’t mean she would let it distract her at work. She was a professional, god dammit, and not even a man as stupidly attractive as Frank Castle could make her lose her focus.

 _Crush_ —it was such a girlish term; made Karen think of hearts doodled all over notebooks and love notes shoved into lockers. But what else was she supposed to call it when she couldn’t stop thinking about him? When she couldn’t stop daydreaming about his wry little smiles, or his laughter (both the booming kind that came out when taken by surprise, and the dark, deep little chuckles that slipped when he found something funny he definitely shouldn’t)? Or when she kept drifting off, imagining what it would be like to feel his body pressed against her own, hard and warm and comforting?

 _Yep,_ Karen pursed her lips grimly _, that’s a crush alright_.

She was right about to turn away to boot up her computer when she noticed the newspaper folded on the corner of Frank’s desk. She frowned. Frank didn’t read the newspaper, and certainly not—she craned forward to read the headline—the _school_ newspaper.

“Uh, Frank…” she trailed off, waiting for him to pop his head up to look at her. She gestured toward the paper with a nod of her head. “I didn’t know you read the school newspaper?”

 _Oh shit_ , Frank’s eyes darted toward the edition on his desk. He’d completely forgotten about it. His plan had been to watch her read it in front of him, so that he could savor her reaction to his interview. But after the morning Karen had had, he’d changed his mind. He didn’t want to add on to the ever-increasing pile of things that were ticking her off. No—he’d save it for another time.

“That’s—uh—well I picked it up for—” Frank grabbed the paper to shove it into his desk drawer, but Karen was already up from her chair and walking toward him.

“Did you pick up a copy for me?” She asked, sounding touched. It was the only explanation she could think of—she’d tried to get Frank to read articles written by her students numerous times, but he always complained that university publications were painful to read. So if it wasn’t for him, and he knew she liked to read every copy the day it came out, then it must have been for her. “That’s so nice. I completely forgot the new edition came out today—I was so distracted by the Danny thing.” She reached out to grab the paper from his hands. Reluctantly, Frank let her have it.

She perched herself on the edge of his desk and shook the paper open (Frank’s eyes, completely of their own volition, flitted to the way her skirt rose on her thigh as she sat).

“Oh,” Karen made a surprised little noise, “it says there’s an interview with Dr. Frank Castle on page 5!” She looked over her shoulder at him incredulously, and he groaned inwardly, dropping his chin into the palm of his hand. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be in the newspaper!”

“Yeah, well,” Frank shrugged, a little helplessly. There was no point in fighting it now—she was going to read the interview.

“I can’t believe you! Keeping something like this from me,” she muttered to herself, turning the pages quickly to find his piece. She cleared her throat, making a big show of wiggling on his desk, hunkering down and getting comfortable to read. “The only reason I’m not reading this out loud is because I’m afraid you’d get up and walk out the door if I did.”

“Damn right I would,” Frank mumbled, and contemplated doing so even now.

He watched her face carefully as she read, tracking the movement of her eyes back and forth across the paper. It was quiet for a good minute, Karen’s breathing filling up the space as she read with a little smile on her face.

He could tell the exact moment she got to the part he was anticipating, because her smile began to slowly slip into a frown, edges turning down by degrees. Her eyes narrowed into half slits, her nostrils flaring.

“Frank Fucking Castle,” she muttered darkly under her breath, though Frank (thankfully) sensed a current of amusement buried deep in the timbre of her voice. “You prick.”

_There are, however, some drawbacks to working at the university level, Castle confided over the phone._

_“You’d think that university professors would make for mature, professional colleagues, wouldn’t you? But sometimes that’s not the case. Not even close.” When asked to expand, Castle chuckled, “Some of the people I work with most closely are as childish as my undergraduates—messy, dramatic, juvenile. Prone to playing ridiculous pranks on one another. Always starting little rivalries. It can be a major headache.”_

_Castle refused to name the colleagues in question, but left us with the following comment: “They know who they are.”_

Karen re-read the paragraph again, just to be sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. When the words were still there—clear as day—she growled. Closing the paper with particular violence, she whipped around and smacked Frank on the head with it.

He barely had time to throw up his arms in defense before she was whacking him again.

“’Messy, dramatic, and juvenile?’” She screeched, but the effect was severely undercut by the laughter in her voice. “I’ll show you ‘messy, dramatic, and juvenile’!” She whacked him again.

“I think you already are, sweetheart,” Frank chuckled, dodging her blows.

“Ooh,” she shook her head, eye twitching. Hopping off the desk, she eased up, shaking her rolled-up paper at him in a manner reminiscent of an old man yelling at kids to get off of his lawn, “I’ll get you back for this.”

Frank couldn’t help it—she looked like a caricature with a hand on her hip, newspaper/weapon in one hand, foot tapping on the floor—he burst out laughing.

“Frank!” Karen threw her hands up in exasperation, “Don’t fucking laugh while I’m trying to threaten you, you big oaf!”

“Can’t help it,” Frank covered up his mouth with a hand in an attempt to stem off the laughter. It didn’t work.

Karen opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the loud beeping of her cellphone. It was the alarm she set to remind herself that she needed to leave STAT if she wanted to make it to class on time.

“Time to go to class, Karen,” Frank got out through his bout of laughter, looking far too delighted for Karen’s liking.

She stood rooted in her spot for a moment, looking back and forth between the phone on her desk and Frank (who was studiously looking away). Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she turned her back to Frank to turn off the alarm and grab her briefcase. No matter how much she wanted to keep laying into him, she couldn’t be late to class.

Whipping around with her bag over her shoulder, she pointed the newspaper at Frank once again.

“This isn’t over, Castle. But I’ve got to be a responsible, _mature_ adult and teach a fucking class.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder imperiously and stomped out of the office. Frank waited until he could no longer hear her heels clicking down the hallway before dissolve back into laughter.

 

Karen glanced down at her watch as she pulled open the door to the coffee shop. She had exactly 30 minutes between classes to refuel, which wasn’t whole lot of time, but luckily the line didn’t look too long. She was in desperate need of caffeine—she’d been so upset about the Danny-Trish thing that morning, she had forgotten to stop in at the usual place by her apartment for coffee. And at 3:30 in the afternoon, she was flagging something awful. If she wanted to make it through her next lecture without passing out, she’d need something strong.

As she grabbed her large, black coffee from the barista, she noticed Matt sitting by the window nursing his own cup. His hands were roving back and forth on the table in front of him—reading. It was odd to see Matt back on campus—sitting in the usual coffee shop, drinking his usual drink—after he’d been gone for so long. A little disorienting. Shoving her change into her purse, Karen made her way over.

“Hey, stranger, mind if I sit?” The question was perfunctory, as she was already sitting by the time he responded.

“Karen! Of course,” he moved to shove some of his notes out of the way to make room for her.

“So,” Karen grabbed a handful of sugar packets, ripping them open one-by-one, “haven’t seen you in a while.” Karen was again struck by the strangeness of it all. Before Matt had left, she and Foggy had spent all of their free time with him. Barely a day went by that they hadn’t seen each other—met up for lunch of drinks at Josie’s. And all of the sudden, she was in the position where she hadn’t seen Matt in over a week.

“Yeah, I—” Matt made a vague gesture with his hands. “Uh, been busy. Trying to get all the notes from my sabbatical into some kind of order. Figure out what I’m doing and all that.”

“Ah,” Karen bobbed her head, “thought you might be avoiding me, Murdock.” She intended it as a joke, but from the way Matt’s head jerked forward, she could tell that he hadn’t taken it that way.

“No way, Kare, I’ve really just been—”

“I know, I know,” Karen cut him off, placing a hand on his arm, “Kidding, Matt. I know you’re busy.”

Matt nodded joltingly, and Karen thought about how things had never been this awkward before the whole Elektra-sabbatical incident. Apparently, without Foggy there to act as a buffer, things were a little more than slightly weird between her and Matt.

There was a beat of silence, in which Karen took a loud sip of her coffee. Matt winced slightly.

“Uh, actually, Karen. I was wondering if we could talk about something,” Matt was suddenly wearing his serious face.

“Uh-oh,” Karen’s voice grew wary, “that doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s about Frank Castle,” Matt folded his hands on the table, like he was getting ready to deliver a lecture. The gesture did not bode well for the direction of the conversation.

“Frank?” Karen was confused, “What about Frank?”

“Look, I’ve been asking around about him, and I don’t know if he’s someone you really want to be getting close to, Kare,” Matt shifted in his seat. “He’s got a reputation for being a bit of an asshole. For being rude and unfriendly; to students and colleagues both. Associating yourself with him won’t do you any favors. Plus, didn’t you hear what he said the other night about how much he gets around? Clearly, the man’s a prick.”

There was a tense beat of silence, in which Karen tried to wrap her mind around what Matt had just said. He sat there expectantly, a mild expression on his face, like he hadn’t just spewed the most ridiculous bullshit Karen had ever heard.

“What the fuck, Matt?” Karen hissed lowly, leaning forward. She had to take several steadying breaths to calm herself. Matt could be painfully sanctimonious—she’d always known this about him. And she’d heard him pass judgment on others of her acquaintances in a similar manner before, but there was something about Frank that was just off-limits for Karen. Something that made her hackles rise.

“There are—” Karen’s voice was shaking slightly, and she paused a moment before trying again. “There are so many problems with what you just said, I’m not even sure where to start with you.”

Matt had the gall to look surprised.

“First of all, don’t speak about Frank to me. Don’t _ever_ speak about Frank to me. You don’t _know_ him. And if you don’t know him, then you don’t have the right to speak about him, understand?” Karen didn’t pause for an affirmation. “Secondly, _you_ were the one that said he got around the other night, not him. Frank would never speak about women that way. Which, again, you would know if you actually knew Frank.”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Karen cut him off.

“Not done, Matt.” She shook her head. “Thirdly, who do you think you are, telling me who I do and don’t want to associate with, Matthew Murdock? What gives you the right?”

There was a tense pause.

“Now I’m done,” Karen tapped a finger against the Formica table top.

“Karen,” Matt reached forward, looking to grab one of her hands, but she removed them from the table quickly. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I come back from Tibet and hear that you are spending all of your time with some strange man—of course I’m going to look into him.”

“What do you mean _of course_?” Karen’s anger was beginning to give way to frustration. “Matt, you’re not my father. And you’re not my boyfriend. I don’t need you ‘looking out for me’ or doing background checks on everyone I choose to spend my time with. I’m a grown woman.”

“I know that, Karen,” Matt was aiming for conciliatory, but instead he just sounded patronizing. “But I can’t help it. I care about you.”

“Oh,” Karen scoffed. “You care about me? Just like you cared about me enough to run off with your ex-girlfriend at the first opportunity? Is that how much you care about me, Matty?”

“Is that what you’re really upset about? The Elektra thing?” Matt tilted his head, “Because I can explain if you would let me.”

“No, Matt. I’m not upset about the Elektra thing.” And she really wasn’t. “I couldn’t care less if you ran off with a bevy of women. What upsets me is that you don’t see how hypocritical you’re being right now. You can’t be the kind of guy who cares _so much_ about me that he feels compelled to check up on everyone I spend my time with, and _also_ be the guy who disappears for months with another woman and doesn’t even check-in with a ‘hey, how are you?’”

Matt sighed, shaking his head.

“How did this conversation get so far off the rails?” He muttered darkly.

“I don’t know, Matt, you tell me,” Karen crossed her arms, feeling defensive.

“Kare, I just wanted things to go back to the way they were before,” Matt ran a hand through his hair. “I just wanted it to be you, Foggy, and me. Just like old times. And I come back, and this—this _Frank_ is now your entire social calendar?”

“So you decided to disparage him to me out of jealousy? In the hopes that I would—what? That I would terminate my friendship with him because you think he might be a bad guy? Because you want us to all go back to pretending you didn’t leave for months? Act like you didn’t wait until you’d been in Tibet for 3 months before even dropping Foggy and I a line letting us know where you were?” Karen’s head was starting to hurt.

“I don’t know, Karen. I don’t know what I wanted,” Matt sighed. “Not this.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want this either.” Karen glanced at her watch. “And we’re out of time.”

Matt didn’t even try to stop her as she gathered all of her things. He just sat there, hands in his lap, feeling foolish.

“Bye, Matt,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away.

 

Later that evening, as Frank sat in the office answering an endless stream of emails, he smiled when he saw a text from Karen come through.

_Just because I’ve been teaching class all day doesn’t mean I didn’t carve out some time to plot my revenge, Castle._

He’d snorted and typed back a response.

_Well your last attempt at revenge ended up working out for me quite well, so do your worst._

Scrubbing a hand over his face and adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, Frank stared across the dimly-lit office to Karen’s empty desk. It was strange to think how, a little over two months ago, sitting in the office alone had been the norm for Frank. He had actually enjoyed it—the respite from the masses of students complaining about how he didn’t curve the test, and from the incessant pressure from the dean to publish more, and faster. His office had been his sanctuary—where he could think, uninterrupted. Alone.

But now, he just felt _lonely_. Without Karen clacking away at her keyboard, humming music under her breath (she’d been on a ridiculous Backstreet Boys streak lately), or pulling him into long and winding conversations, the space felt empty. Like it was waiting for something—suspended in time, waiting for Karen to return. And Frank felt like he was, too.

It was strange, the extent to which Karen had burrowed herself into his life. Or maybe not so strange. Frank did the math in his head quickly: they’d been working together for two and a half months, so about 50 days (not including weekends, and they spent an average of 5 hours in the office together per day (early mornings and late nights included). So, over the course of their friendship, they’d spent about 250 hours together, in a confined space, talking.

That was a lot of time. More than Frank would have guessed.

But time always tended to fly by when he was with Karen. She had a way about her that set him at ease; there was never an awkward moment of silence when she was around.

After all their time together, Frank could certainly see what it was that made Karen such a fantastic reporter. She was honest and genuine—interested in everything. Her curiosity was boundless; she could listen to him go on, _ad infinitum,_ about his research, and though she didn’t understand _everything_ he was saying, she made an attempt. If someone else was excited about their work, well then Karen could get excited about their excitement.

And she was so incredibly non-judgmental. He’d heard her tell her students, multiple times, “the things I don’t know, and don’t understand, far outweigh the things I do.” How—Karen always seemed to be asking—could she pass judgement on someone else when she, herself, was just a blind creature grappling for answers? He’d seen her practice empathy in the most incredible ways. Once, when a class she taught was studying the coverage of one of the most famous murder trials of the century—a war vet convicted of over 30 homicides—she’d convinced them to stow away their initial biases and see him as a human being. Students had been in the office for _days_ discussing that trial, with Karen gently reminding them, every so often, that they should always seek to _understand_ before reaching for fear and hate.

But above all, Karen was vulnerable. She was open and generous with her own life. She shared of herself so freely—laughed with abandon, cried without shame, felt everything down to her core. It was beautiful. It was inspiring. It made Frank feel less like vulnerability were something to be ashamed of, and instead something borne out of the kind of strength he could never fathom.

Karen was a million flawed, beautiful, precious things. And how could you _not_ want to get close to that? How could you not want to huddle closer, sharing in that kind of light?

So when Karen asked him a question—when she reached out toward him—he was always powerless to deny her. Which is how she’d turned the notoriously-laconic Frank Castle into the kind of guy who felt _lonely_ sitting in his office without her.

He glanced at the clock—6 PM. Normally by this time Karen would have made it back to the office for a few extra hours of work before heading home. They would have done the usual—banter back and forth about nothing in particular, or else complain about deadlines and grading, or maybe share something ridiculous or strange one of their students had said in class—then they would have said goodnight. But the sun was slowly sinking and she was nowhere to be seen.

Frank stretched, shuffling through the papers on his desk listlessly. He was contemplating calling it a night when his phone started to ring. It was Karen’s ringtone—“You Don’t Own Me” by Lesley Gore (the perfect song for a woman like Karen).

“Page,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Uh, hey Frank,” there was something tight in Karen’s voice as she spoke. Something that sounded an awful lot like pain. Frank sat up straighter in his seat, on alert. “You still at the office?”

“Yeah—yes. Karen, are you okay? You sound kind of—”

“Actually,” Karen cut him off. He heard some kind of movement, followed by choking noise. Then a “fuck” muttered quietly under her breath. “I was walking back from class and I think I sprained my ankle. Stupid fucking heels on the stupid fucking cobblestones. Why the fuck do we still have cobblestones?”

“Karen, where are you? Can you walk?” Frank was out of his seat already, shrugging on his coat and reaching for his keys.

“I’m on the corner between the deli and the co-op. I can kind of hobble, but there’s no way I can make it home on this foot.” She made a soft grunt of pain, and Frank was out the door.

“Okay. Stay where you are. I’m coming in the car.”

 

She was leaning against the wall of the deli, a black shoe with the heel dangling off in one hand, when Frank pulled up to the curb.

She sighed in relief as he hopped out the car and jogged over to her.

“Shit, Karen. That doesn’t look good.” As he got closer, Frank could already see the swelling begin to turn slightly purple.

“And I had a gig ankle modelling tonight. Just my luck,” Karen said through gritted teeth as Frank sunk to his knees at her feet and took the foot in hand.

She tried to cover up her sharp intake of breath as his fingers gently probed at her ankle. Staring down at his head, she concentrated on the way his hair was growing long enough that you could _just_ see it begin to curl, and ignored the throbbing of her ankle.

“Hmmm,” Frank pronounced after a moment, standing up, “Looks like it’s not fractured or broken. Just a bad sprain.”

“Jesus. Haven’t sprained an ankle since the summer my mom enrolled me in overnight cheer camp and I got kicked out for sneaking in candy.” Karen tucked her broken shoe into her bag, pushing herself off of the wall.

“You’ll have to tell me that story later.” Frank caught Karen as she listed forward, reaching out to slip one arm under her shoulder, pulling her close to the side of his body. “But for now let’s get you in the car, huh?”

“Thanks, Frank,” Karen panted out, hobbling forward. Despite the circumstances, Karen couldn’t help but appreciate the situation. She’d never really touched Frank like this before, with so much of her body. Leaning against him, she let the heat of him sink into her side—let herself melt ever-so-slightly into the hard planes of his chest. His hand, which had steadied itself on her hip, gripped her tightly, and she knew she’d be feeling the burning impression of his palm on her skin for days.

 “Here we go,” Frank shifted, helping her climb into the car before jogging back around to his side. Karen buckled herself in, taking a steadying breath before Frank reappeared.

“Home?” Frank asked, and Karen nodded. Fortunately, Frank had picked her up for various work functions at her apartment before, so he didn’t require directions. She only lived about a ten minute walk from campus.

As he pulled away from the curb, he shot a sidelong glance at Karen. Her face, flashing in and out of the beams of streetlights as they passed underneath, was contorted.

“You know, this is exactly why I don’t wear heels to work anymore,” Frank quipped. Karen barked out a surprised laugh, which sounded quite a bit more like a snort.

“Ooh,” she grabbed the handle on the side of the car in a tight grip, “Don’t make me laugh when I’m in pain, Castle.”

“Sorry,” Frank said, but he didn’t sound it.

“Just so you know, this act of kindness doesn’t make up for the whole interview debacle,” Karen shot Frank a dark look as she shifted in her seat.

“Obviously,” Frank conceded with a nod of his head. “I’d need to save you from a burning building to make up for _that_.”

“Two burning buildings,” Karen shot back.

“You know, nobody who reads that paper is going to know I was talking about you,” Frank pointed out, taking an extra-cautious right turn so as not to jostle Karen’s ankle.

“But _I’ll_ know, Frank. And I have my pride.”

“More than your fair share of it, I’d say.”

“Hey, buck-o. You’re on real thin ice,” Karen jabbed Frank’s arm, which was resting on the gearshift between them. “I’ve got the absolutely perfect amount of pride.”

“It’s just like someone with too much pride to think they have the prefect amount of pride,” Frank shook his head sadly.

Karen almost replied with something snotty, but realized that Frank kind of had a point.

“Whatever,” she grumbled, and Frank shot her a confused look.

“You must _really_ be in pain if you don’t have a snarky comeback for that,” he sounded more than a touch concerned.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll come up with something,” Karen said through a grimace.

“Okay.”

The car grew quiet, and Karen focused on breathing through the aching pain. She was by no means a whimp when it came to pain, but she’d already been on her feet all day—in heels no less—so the sprain was just the cherry on top of _that_. Plus, the whole confrontation with Matt was still weighing on her. And though that fell more in the category of _psychological_ pain than _physical_ pain, Karen still figured that pain was pain. A few more beats of silenced passed, then Frank spoke up.

“It’s been a minute, Kare.”

Karen made an annoyed little grunt, then opened her mouth to speak, but Frank was already rolling to a stop in front of her building. Shifting the car into park, he turned to her.

“Wait here.”

Karen had unbuckled her seatbelt and swung her briefcase over her shoulder by the time Frank made it around to her side.

“You know, you don’t have to walk me all the way up,” Karen said, as Frank helped her down from the car. “The staircase has a perfectly-functioning railing for me to hold onto. I can make it myself.”

Frank shot her a disbelieving look.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” was all he said, wrapping his arm around her.

Together, they hobbled up the stairs of the complex, and Frank waited patiently while Karen punched in the code to the outer door.

As they made their way to the elevator, it became increasingly obvious to Karen that Frank didn’t plan on leaving until she was perfectly settled in her apartment. In a slight panic, she began to scan her memory—trying to recall what kind of state her apartment was in. She couldn’t for the life of her remember how recently she’d tidied up, and if the clean laundry she’d taken out of the dryer last night was still on the couch in the living room.

 _Too late to do anything about it now_ , she thought, as they approached her door. Frank stood patiently as Karen fumbled to find her keys.

It was with great relief, as Karen threw open the door, that she took in a relatively clean apartment.

Frank, who had never actually been up to Karen’s place before, took it all in with great curiosity. As he walked Karen over to the couch, he noticed that—surprisingly—he place was quite tidy. From the way she treated their office, he was expecting piles of dirty dishes and papers scattered everywhere. But the place looked put-together—cared for. The clutter that _did_ fill up the apartment was all rather cozy—books stacked on the coffee table, a basket of yarn and knitting needles next to the couch, eclectic throw pillows piled up everywhere, an afghan draped over a chair at the breakfast table.

The place was warm. Inviting.

Depositing Karen on the couch, Frank moved to collect some pillows to prop under her leg.

“You really don’t have to do that, Frank. I can take it from here,” Karen tried to wave him away as he approached with the afghan tossed over his shoulder.

“Nope,” was all Frank had to say in response, as he gently covered her with the blanket. “Got any tea?” He asked over his shoulder, as he wandered into her kitchen.

Karen sighed. There was clearly no room for argument here, so she gave in.

“Yeah. In the cabinet above the sink,” she sighed. “I like the green tea.”

Frank nodded, filling up the electric kettle before reaching for the tea packets. Karen watched with interest as he moved around the kitchen gathering mugs and sugar packets. He looked so domestic—suddenly, Karen could picture him as the husband he once was. Making tea for his wife after a long day at work. The thought grew warm in the pit of her stomach.

“Karen?” Frank’s stern voice broke through her thoughts, and she looked up to see him leaning down with his head in the fridge.

“Hmm?” Karen hummed in response.

“Why do you only have—” he paused, sticking his head further into the fridge. “A jar of pickles, some yogurt, and a case of beer in here?” His head popped up over the door to shoot her a bemused look.

“Why are you snooping around in my fridge?” Karen crossed her arms over her chest and scowled.

“Because I want to make sure you won’t starve tonight while you’re recovering on the couch,” Frank began opening and closing a series of drawers in her kitchen, clearly searching for something in particular. Karen watched his face light up in triumph when he found where she stored her takeout menus. “I’m going to order pizza. What do you want?”

Karen would have made a comment about how he was being particularly pushy this evening, but she was feeling quite hungry herself—and thankful for the company. She was never a good patient, and secretly adored the attention when she was hurt. Sliding down further on the couch, she yawned.

“Get the supreme. With everything on it.”

“Girl after my own heart,” Frank smiled at her as he dialed the number. While he ordered, he snooped around until he found Ziploc bags, then began filling one with ice from the freezer.

He approached with the make-shift ice-pack wrapped in towel, hanging up the phone as he handed it to her. She gingerly placed it on her swollen ankle, hissing at the contact. Frank frowned, sitting down at the far end of the couch, careful to avoid her foot.

“Pizza will be here in about half an hour,” he peered down at her ankle, inspecting the increased swelling.

“Does that mean you’re staying for dinner, then?” Karen reached for the end table behind her, grabbing a bottle of pain meds she kept on hand for her migraines.

“If that’s alright with you,” Frank shrugged.

“Don’t you have other things to do? I don’t want to keep you from anything,” Karen said, before dry swallowing a couple of pills.

“Nope,” Frank shook his head. “Kids are with Maria tonight, and my weekly cult meeting isn’t until tomorrow. Why, want me out of your hair?” He suddenly felt a little self-conscious—a little presumptuous—sitting there on Karen’s couch like he owned the place. He was so used to their dynamic at the office, comfortable and easy, that he didn’t stop to think it might be different with him in her home. In her territory. For a quick moment, he became strangely aware of his own body—how it moved throughout her space, bulky and graceless.

Seeing the look of uncertainty flit across Frank’s face, Karen was quick to speak.

“No, no. Just didn’t want to inconvenience you will my clumsiness.” She gestured at her injured foot.

Frank shot her an unreadable look, frowning.

“You’re not an inconvenience.”

The electric kettle dinged, and Frank popped up to finishing making the tea.

On the couch, Karen was the one who was beginning to grow a tad self-conscious. She and Frank had spent an abundant amount of time together, it was true—but never like this. Never in so intimate a setting. There was something so _different_ about having Frank wander around her kitchen, among all of her things. Something that made her brain go a little fuzzy as she watched him stirring sugar into her mug (one packet, just like she liked it)—made her insides clench in interesting and confusing ways.

He padded back to the couch to hand her the mug, and she noticed that he’d shed his shoes at some point. There was something endearing in the fact that he wore argyle socks.

Frank noticed the direction of her gaze, and wiggled his toes

Karen chuckled, taking the mug with a ‘thank you.’ Blowing the steam from her tea, she noted Frank’s line of sight drift to the wall next to the bookcase, where all of her most impressive articles hung side-by-side in matching frames.

“Wow,” Frank whispered, as he walked closer to inspect. There was the article she’d written about child soldiers in Yemen, the one about illegal gender-assignment surgery and the rights of Intersex children, and even the piece she’d published about the man in South Korea who’d fathered over a hundred children through anonymous sperm donation. “These all yours?” Frank asked, even though he could clearly see her name written in the byline.

“Yep,” Karen popped her ‘p,’ studying the broad expanse of Frank’s back as he leaned closer to skim through one of the articles.

“These are amazing.” His voice was soft.

“They were all gifts from my brother, Kevin,” Karen sunk further into the couch, feeling the pain meds starting to take effect and dull the throbbing of her ankle. “Every year, he used to send me one on my birthday. Said the greatest gift he could give me was reminding me of my own accomplishments.”

Frank hummed. “So he’s the one responsible for your inflated sense of pride?”

Karen snorted a laugh. “Was,” she corrected, “He passed away last year. But I think he’d be happy to take the blame.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank shot Karen a concerned look, brow furrowed. “About your brother.”

“’S alright,” Karen shrugged. “You didn’t know. And he had been sick for a while—cystic fibrosis. We had been prepared for a long time when it happened.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” Frank turned back to the articles,

“No, it doesn’t.” Karen shook her head.

There was a beat of silence, and Karen took a sip of her tea, wincing at the loud slurping noise it caused. Frank glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

“Why’d you quit?” He asked, gesturing at her wall of accomplishments. She’d never really mentioned her change in career, and he never asked. But it seemed like the appropriate time. “This stuff is remarkable—what you got to see, the places you got to go.”

Karen threw her arm over the back of the couch, cupping her jaw in her hand and scanning her own articles.

“Well…I guess I didn’t want it to change me, y’know? Didn’t want the job making me someone I wasn’t. And I could kind of see that it was,” she looked thoughtful.

Frank stared at her in silence, waiting for her to expound.

Karen pulled her mug to her chest, letting the heat of it warm her through her shirt.

“I mean, I became a journalist because I wanted to _humanize_. I wanted to connect. To talk to people who were so vitally different from myself; to understand ways of life fundamentally unlike my own. To just…I don’t know. Write articles that made people understand that everywhere—through everything—there’s this common thread of humanity that unites us all.” Karen took a sip of her tea, her face drawn in thought.

“And it wasn’t what you hoped it would be?” Frank prompted.

“No—yes—I mean, in some ways,” Karen shook her head. “At the beginning, it was _everything_. The travelling, the learning, meeting people living lives I could never image. You know, just getting to touch the whole worlds that exist inside other people. Soaking in the culture,” Karen smiled wistfully. “I saw some… _amazing_ things,” her voice took on a breathy, dreamy quality. “I saw a Chinese mother reunited with her son, 30 years after he’d been adopted and taken to the US. And that moment of joy when they first embraced each other—that moment of reconnection—of love made tangible. A broken chain being remade. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. As long as I live, Frank.”

Frank moved away from the wall of frames, sitting back down at the end of the couch. Gingerly, he lifted Karen’s ankle and placed it into his lap on top of a throw pillow.

“But I also saw some—some truly horrible things.” She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking about the article she’d written on female genital mutilation. “I know that it’s important that atrocities have witnesses. That someone has to be there to see the trauma and the horror. To understand it. To make it known. But it’s hard being a witness, you know? Being the one who can’t look away, because it’s your duty to _watch_.” Frank heard the catch in Karen’s voice. Her eyes looked so far away.

“And the dark just go too much? Outweighed the light?” His voice was quiet. He threw his arm over the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the ends of Karen’s hair.

“No—I don’t think that was it,” Karen shook her head. “In the beginning, the beautiful moments were _stunning_. Took my breath away. Made me feel so fucking human. And the horrible moments—they broke my goddamn heart. Tore me apart. But, in a way, that was good. I was feeling things—I was present,” Karen ran a hand through her hair. “After a few years, though, everything kind of started to numb a bit. Just became… _less_. The beautiful and the ugly—they just made me feel numb.”

“It’s hard to see these stories as human when your job is to reduce them down to a thousand word article, to be consumed by an audience over breakfast. I think I started looking at people and seeing them as quotes and word limits and bylines. Gets to the point where you hear about the latest national tragedy on the news and you think ‘I better publish a think piece on this before someone else does.’”

Karen shifted, moving to put her uninjured foot in Frank’s lap as well. He absent-mindedly began to rub his thumb up and down the arch.

“You know, I once saw an old colleague of mine harass this poor woman outside of a court house, _moments_ after her husband had been sentenced to life in prison.” Karen’s voice grew hard, and Frank saw the ripple of anger in her eyes. “Just kept badgering her and pushing her until he got the quote he wanted. This woman was sobbing on his jacket, but he was smiling because—fuck it—he got a great quote out of her.” Karen lifted a hand to her mouth, distractedly biting at her thumbnail.

Frank was silent for a moment, as his thumb continued to stroke her foot. He tried to envision it in his mind—to imagine a Karen who was numb and callous to the world around her. Who could look at suffering and feel nothing. And he found that he couldn’t do it—the Karen he knew had a direct line to the beating heart of her humanity.

“So you left because you didn’t like being numb?” Frank’s deep, rumbling voice drew Karen’s eyes up to his own. He was looking at her with a kind of tenderness that made her feel weak.

“Uh,” she cleared her throat, “yeah. Yes.”

“Was it hard? Leaving it all behind?”

“No. I’ve never had a hard time making the decision that’s best for my mental health. You have to be kind to yourself above all—and this was the decision that was kind to Karen,” she smiled weakly. “The only difficult part was dealing with all the rumors. The gossip.”

“Rumors?” Frank tiled his head.

“Oh, you know,” Karen shrugged. “That I’d quit because I couldn’t handle the pressure, that I couldn’t cut in a male-dominated business, that I was too weak and emotional to be a good journalist.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re the strongest person I know, Page. And the very fact that you were able to leave when you needed to leave proves it.” Frank’s stare was intense, and Karen felt the well of affection for him in her chest damn-near overflow. She bit her bottom lip to keep helpless tears from welling up in her eyes.

“Thanks, Frank,” she whispered.

He was about to open his mouth to speak, but the buzzer rang. Karen cleared her throat, and Frank moved to stand up.

“Pizza guy,” he said, removing her feet from his lap. Standing up, Frank paused for a moment, his back to Karen. She watched his shoulders move as he took a deep breath.

“You know, Karen,” he said, turning slightly to look at her over his shoulder, “I’m really glad you ended up here. However you got here—I’m glad you did.”

Karen didn’t have a chance to respond before Frank was out the door.

 

Frank ended up staying until around midnight, at which point Karen passed out on the couch, unable to fight her exhaustion any longer. They’d talked almost the entire night away, over pizza and tea (Karen would have offered the beer in the fridge, but knew that Frank wouldn’t drink as long as she couldn’t). The topics of conversation were considerably lighter than their before-dinner chat.

Frank told stories about his kids, Frankie Jr. and Lisa. How Frankie Jr. was learning to skateboard, which mostly seemed to involve wrapping himself up in various layers of padding and standing on the skateboard with his arms spread, looking like a terrified, baby deer learning to walk. Or about how Lisa was trying out for her school baseball team—they didn’t offer softball—and how she’d petitioned the school using Title IX for the right. Frank had been spending most weekends at the park with her, teaching her to throw. Karen noticed, with some interest, that he didn’t really talk about Maria, despite the fact that she knew there was no bad blood between the two of them. (Frank would later admit that David had told him never to talk about his ex-wife with a girl he liked).

He talked about his friends, Curtis and David. Karen had laughed until her stomach hurt when he relayed the fact that David’s wife, Sarah, had actually been on a date at Coney Island with _Frank_ , when he’d introduced her to David. She’d dumped Frank mid-date to go off somewhere with the other man. Frank had been upset, until he’d seen how incredibly besotted the two were.

Frank did little things throughout the evening that set Karen’s heart to thundering wildly in her chest. He’d brushed a stray strand of hair off of her face at one point, tucking it behind her ear; he’d gently squeezed her calf when she’d told him about the way she and Kevin used to get their father to film homemade James Bond movies with them (in which Kevin was James Bond and Karen was Q— _not_ Moneypenny); he’d even wiped a dab of pizza sauce off of her lip with his thumb.

As Karen had watched Frank do an impression of his mother, complete with the high-pitched voice and all, a strange—though not entirely unwelcome—truth dawned on her.

She didn’t just have a _crush_ on Frank Castle. No. Nothing that simple.

She was fucking in _love_ with Frank Castle.

 

If someone had asked Karen to describe _exactly_ what had shifted in her relationship with Frank after the night of the sprained ankle, she wasn’t entirely sure she could pinpoint it. All she knew was that something _had_ shifted.

There was a new kind of comfort between the two of them. A cozy sort of warmth that seemed to grow whenever they were in the same room.

(Trish, who had popped in one evening to get Karen’s advice on her dissertation proposal, described it to her buddy Jessica as a sense of _gravity_ between them. The way that Karen could ask Frank to close the blinds with merely a tilt of her head; the way that she seemed to know that Frank was hungry before he even spoke—reaching into her desk drawer for a protein bar and tossing it his way. Like they were doing a choreographed dance. She’d sighed dreamily, ignoring Jessica’s rolled eyes, going on about romantic tension and undisclosed desires).

Both Frank’s and Karen’s students had picked up on it, too. These days, it seemed that any time they saw Dr. Page walking (hobbling on crutches) around campus, Dr. Castle wasn’t far behind. Her senior seminar class, unbeknownst to her, almost had a collective meltdown the day that Karen walked into class one day wearing what was clearly one of Dr. Castle’s sweaters with the sleeves rolled up. (She’d spilled coffee down her white silk shirt, effectively making it see-through, and didn’t have time to go home and change before class. Frank, who always had an extra dress shirt in his desk drawer, had offered her his sweater).

Karen, with her newfound knowledge that she Capital L loved Frank Castle, had decided to keep that little tidbit of information to herself. She wasn’t ready to let all those soft, confusing thoughts that lived inside of her, in the box marked “Frank Castle,” out into the real world just yet.

So instead, she reminded him constantly of her plans to get back at him for his interview stunt. Because, apparently, like an elementary-aged boy, her idea of letting someone know you liked them involved low-key bullying.

She’d dropped hints about having contacts in the psychology department who could get their hands on lab mice, but Frank had just grunted a laugh and replied, “You’d be more scared of the mice than I would, sweetheart.”

She’d also been toying around with the idea of doing something to his car—maybe getting it towed or having some of her students help her fill it with packing peanuts. But it seemed sacrilegious to deface his car when it had saved her so much pain the other night when she’d sprained her ankle. The car didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

Limping back to the office from her final class of the day—two weeks after the incident, and Karen had _just_ gone off her crutches—Karen had an epiphany. She knew exactly what she’d do to get Frank back—and it would bug the _piss_ out of her hyper-organized office mate. It would take a lot of time, and a lot of man power, but she was sure she could get Foggy to help her out (she still wasn’t on speaking terms with Matt after their coffee house showdown, or she would have recruited him too).

Walking into the Physics building, Karen contemplated the logistics of completely flipping their two sides of the room. They’d have to move the desks, the bookshelves…have the move all Frank’s degrees to her wall, and move her paintings to take their place. It would be a full evening’s work, so she’d have to wait until next Thursday, when Frank left the office early to pick Lisa up from baseball practice. Then they’d have all night to do the swap.

A devious smile worked its way to Karen’s face as she hobbled down the hallway to their office. She was just about to open the door, when she heard some odd noises from inside. It sounded like yipping, as strange and out-of-place as it may have been. Like little puppies barking. For a moment, Karen wondered if Frank had brought a puppy to work. But no—he would have told her if he had.

Pushing the door open, Karen saw Frank’s head shoot up, eyes wide, as he immediately clicked a button on his computer, making the noises stop.

“Frank,” Karen asked, drawing out his name as she limped her way over to his desk. “What were you watching?”

“I was—” Frank thought about lying, covering up the fact that he was watching a live puppy feed from the local pit bull shelter when he should have been working, but gave up on it. Karen was a journalist—she’d get it out of him eventually. With a sigh, he turned his screen around to Karen could see. “Just, puppies.” He said, shrugging.

“Oh my God,” Karen whispered, watching the live feed as a pile of little pit bulls crawled all over each other. She looked from the computer screen to Frank—who was sporting a rather sheepish look—and felt her heart squeeze in her chest.

 _Fuck the prank_ , she thought. _I’ve got to find a way to tell this ridiculous man that I’m in love with him._


	3. Like a Prayer, You Don't Expect an Answer

Despite the fact that the university operated a dry campus, Frank always kept a bottle of scotch in the bottom right drawer of his desk. The good stuff—Lagavulin—and it was for special occasions only. He had purchased it 7 years ago—on his first day teaching at the university—and it had remained in his desk for years afterward, collecting dust. It turned out that Frank wasn’t all that great at celebrating. Didn’t often see many reasons he considered important enough to break out the _good stuff_. The day his first article had been published, he’d bought himself a Twix bar at lunch as a special treat; after his promotion to Associate Professor, he’d gone with David and Curtis for a pint and crawled into bed early; when he was awarded the Alfred P. Sloan Research Fellowship, he’d taken the kids to Coney Island and bought them so much junk food that Frankie Jr. threw up on the way home.

But never once did he break out the scotch. Not that those weren’t momentous life occasions for Frank—they were. But he had never really been one for ostentatious celebration; never the guy to throw a party in his own honor. He was, he told himself, waiting for a moment _truly_ worthy of ceremony for the Lagavulin.

Since meeting Karen, however, he’d broken out the bottle on three separate occasions. The first time had occurred about a month and a half into their working relationship, when Karen realized, mid-rant about her latest run-in with Danny Rand, that it was her three year anniversary of earning her PhD. She’d jumped up from her desk so suddenly, stopping mid-sentence, that she nearly gave Frank a heart attack. He’d watched, half-confused and half-charmed, as she’d run out to the coffee shop to buy herself a cupcake. (She was, and always would be, a firm believer in celebrating the little things). She had looked so excited, rummaging around in her desk drawer, searching for a candle to blow out, that Frank had figured “why the hell not,” and offered her a congratulatory drink.

The second time had followed about a month later, when mid-term student evaluations had come out. They’d both sat on the floor, getting slightly tipsy, and read theirs out loud to each other. Karen had laughed until she’d toppled over when one of Frank’s students wrote, “Dr. Castle is kind of like a sexy shark—like he looks really good, but I’m super scared of getting too close to him, because he might bite my head off.” For a solid week, every time Frank approached Karen’s desk, she’d hummed the _Jaws_ theme song under her breath.

The third time had taken place only three days ago, when Frank finally removed the duct tape boundary from across the office. At some point in the nearly 4 months since Karen had moved in, the clearly-delineated separation between “his” side of the office and “her” side of the office had completely broken down. Karen’s little potted succulents—which needed direct sunlight—had ended up on the windowsill behind Frank’s desk (she assured him that they didn’t need to be watered every day, but he kept an eye on them just in case). When one of Frank’s bookshelves collapsed, he’d moved a great deal of his heavy, forbidding Physics books to Karen’s side (her Maggie Nelsons and Searles were beginning to look quite cozy pressed up against his Capassos and Sobels). And the former no-man’s-land between their desks had become what Karen affectionately called “the family room,” which she had filled with floor cushions “thrifted” from Foggy’s apartment, all carefully placed around a low coffee table. It was where they sat to eat their take-out dinners, and where Karen did her grading when her desk became too restricting. After much prodding from Karen, Frank had finally admitted the duct tape line was a farce, and pulled it up with great ceremony. She had clapped, he had bowed, and they’d toasted with a glass of Scotch.

It turned out that Frank found a lot more worth celebrating with Karen around.

So when David Leiberman knocked on Frank’s office door at 7PM on Friday evening, he figured it was cause enough to break out the good stuff one more time. After the obligatory hugs, and the thinly-veiled references to how much they’d missed each other, Frank set about pouring a generous glass for his friend.

“So how long you in town for?” Frank asked over his shoulder to David, who was somewhere behind Karen’s desk, probably snooping. He looked down at the glass in his hand, then tipped in just a _little_ more of the amber liquor. It was a Friday after all—no work in the morning.

“Just until Sunday night. I’m speaking at a conference at the Kimpton,” David looked up from his current task of closely examining every inch of Karen’s bookshelf. He ran a finger along her collection of titles, smiling when he noticed a copy of _The Fundamentals of Photonics_ wedged between _Witness and Memory: The Discourse of Trauma_ and _Speech Acts_.

“You should have called ahead—I would have planned something. Maria has the kids this weekend,” Frank walked over to David, who had pulled out one of Karen’s books and was thumbing through it. (It was, he noted with interest, filled with the most bizarre and incomprehensible shorthand he’d ever seen). He put it back in its place and accepted the glass from Frank.

“Well, you know,” David shrugged, taking a sip and humming in approval. “I wanted to surprise you. See the look on your face and all that.”

“Didn’t take you as the kind of guy who went in for dramatics,” Frank leaned back against Karen’s desk, observing his friend with a keen eye.

David dragged a hand through unruly curls, looking sheepish.

“Also I just kind of forgot.”

“Ah, there it is,” Frank lifted his glass in a mock-toast. “That sounds more like you.”

“Wouldn’t have made much of a difference at any rate, I’m afraid,” David continued his perusal of Karen’s little library. “They’ve got me booked at the conference all weekend. Wouldn’t have a spare minute anyway.”

“I could’ve at least planned for you to see the kids. Frankie Jr’s starting to talk about building his own computer. I figured that was a conversation for Uncle David,” Frank ran a knuckle against the polished wood of Karen’s desk, wondering idly if she was planning on returning to the office sometime soon.

“Ah, well that just gives me an excuse to come back again,” David gave one last, lingering look at the bookshelf before turning to inspect the rest of the office. “Maybe bring the kids with me next time. Make a trip out of it.”

Frank watched David wander about the space, and noticed the way his eyes caught on all of Karen’s little touches—the lingering imprints of her scattered about. Her succulents on the window sill, her pink Himalayan salt lamp, the gauzy blue curtains she’d hung in the window (she liked to close them in the afternoon to watch the way they played peek-a-boo with the sunlight). He paused to inspect the sticky-notes Karen had stuck to the wall by the door—little memos she left for herself about errands to run or sources to look up. (The one that read, “Yell at Frank about leaving the window open overnight!” in large, bold letters had him biting the inside of his cheek to keep an amused chuckle down).

“The, uh—the place looks different, Frankie,” David tried for casual as he turned to Frank, hands in his pockets. Tried to look as though he hadn’t been impatiently biding his time until he could loop the topic of conversation around to Karen. “More…lively,” he rocked back and forth on his heels slightly, grinning.

During the far-too-infrequent Skype conversations they had managed to catch over the past few months, David had begun to notice an increase in the amount of times Frank made mention of his office mate. It had started off-handedly, with Frank dropping in a small detail about her every once in a while—“and then Karen walked in and almost spilled her coffee all over my radiometer, so I had to deal with _that_ shit _._ ” Just carelessly bringing her up in passing, almost like an afterthought. Then, after a while, it became Frank relaying long, complicated stories about his latest adventure involving Karen—“so she fuckin’ signed me up for this interview with a freshman, David. I was ready to strangle her.”

More and more, Karen began to leak into every conversation David and Frank had. It was a progression so natural that it took David a month or so to catch on.

Until finally, he noticed Frank using that oh-so-special word when talking about Karen: we.

“So _we_ decided to order take-out and do some grading”, or “ _we_ were tired of the radiator always going on the fritz, so _we_ brought in a mini-heater”, or “ _we_ left the window open the other day and a pigeon fuckin’ flew into the office and shit on my desk overnight.” Frank didn’t even have to mention Karen by name—every time he said “we,” David could safely assume he was including Karen. He didn’t think Frank realized he was doing it—but at some point, every story he told was about Dr. Karen Page. Him and Karen. Karen and him. Always together. And David was incredibly eager to figure out what _that_ was all about.

“Now it actually looks like a _human_ spends time in this room, instead of a robot,” David ran a finger across one of Karen’s sticky notes for emphasis.

“Yeah. That’s all Karen,” Frank swirled the Scotch in his glass, grinning to himself. David doubted Frank knew how dopey that grin looked, or he would have worked harder to cover it up.

“Hmm,” David continued his leisurely walk about the office. “Lots of very un-Frank things going on here,” David gestured vaguely to the floor cushions. “Can’t really imaging you sitting on one of those.”

“Eh,” Frank shrugged, “it’s not so bad. More comfortable than my desk chair. And Karen likes ‘em.”

“Seems like Karen’s changed a _lot_ around here, huh?” David wandered over to the loveseat that had been wedged between the two desks. As he sat, he noticed the soft-looking throw draped over the arm— _Karen again_. “I would have thought you’d have a harder time with someone coming in and invading your space. But it seems like you’ve handled it quite well.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out I don’t mind it so much.”

“If it’s the right person, huh?” David said with a knowing little smile.

And it was that smile that had Frank instantly suspicious of where David was leading their seemingly-innocuous little chat. His friend had a habit of talking in circles, leading you around and around the topic of conversation he _really_ wanted to discuss, until it drove you crazy. Frank hated it—had no patience for the whole thing. He stared at David with narrowed eyes, fingers tapping against Karen’s desk as he took a sip from his drink.

“I mean,” David continued, nonchalantly, “it just seems like _anyone_ else, and you’d be dying to get rid of them. Get your space back. But with Karen, you don’t mind one bit. Just interesting.”

“ _Interesting_ , huh?” Frank spoke slowly.

“Yep,” David took a sip of his scotch. “Just interesting.”

There was a beat of silence, during which David sat coolly under Frank’s assessing gaze.

“If you want to say something, just say something, man,” Frank sounded slightly annoyed. “Hate it when you beat around the bush.”

“Not saying anything, Frankie,” David held his hands up defensively, but the quirk of his lips gave him away. “Just making some casual observations.”

“Yeah, I know you too well to believe that any observation you make is casual,” Frank set his glass on the desk and crossed his arms. David had to stop himself from laughing at how stereotypically-Frank the move was. “So why don’t you try that one again, buddy.”

“Well, I guess I’m just wondering,” David paused, crossing one leg over the other and throwing his arm over the back of the loveseat, “you know, very _casually_ ,” he emphasized the word with a raised eyebrow, “when you’re going to get around to admitting that you’re in love with Karen Page.”

David had never seen Frank go so still before. It was a little alarming, watching his muscles freeze up rigidly, his eyes unblinking, mouth pressed in a hard line—David was half worried that he wasn’t even breathing. For a full fifteen seconds, Frank stood there, unnaturally still, while David sat patiently, waiting for an answer.

It was the loud sip David took from his glass that seemed to shake Frank out of it.

“I—” Frank coughed, clearing his throat, then tried again. “No idea what you’re talking about.” But his voice lacked certainty—sounded a little edgy.

“Yeah,” David nodded, as though Frank’s response were exactly what he expected, “see, your words say ‘no idea what you’re talking about,’ but that incredibly strained pause you just took, plus,” he gestured to Frank’s face, “that terrified look you’re wearing say otherwise.”

Frank felt that familiar little throbbing begin between his eyebrows—the one that only David seemed able to incite. Suddenly, he forgot why he was so happy to see his friend only moments earlier.

“I’m not in love with Karen,” Frank tried to summon up a little conviction, but missed the mark by miles. Instead, he sounded like a petulant child who refused to admit he’d taken the last cookie while his hand was still in the jar. “We’re just friends.” The words felt wrong in his mouth, heavy and unwieldy. Tasted like vinegar on his tongue—the way lies always do when you’re body decides to reject them.

“Hmm,” David hummed a little disbelieving sound, and brought a hand up to his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “Now normally I would take you at your word, you being my closest friend and all, but I’m afraid you have a particularly bad case of chronic emotional constipation, Frank. It’s just one of your many quirks.” He shook his head sadly.

Frank sputtered indignantly, before remembering that arguing with David was pointless. Always had been—the man was like a dog with a bone when he was trying to press his point. And suddenly, Frank didn’t have the energy to fight it.

“You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong,” David waved a hand in the general direction of Frank’s many framed degrees. “But you’re unbelievably shit at understanding your own emotions.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re here to enlighten me?” Frank’s voice had a sardonic edge. He moved from Karen’s desk, grabbing her swivel chair to drag it in front of David. He sat down with a heavy thud.

“Only if you’ll allow me,” David sounded way too amused—too pleased with himself. The throbbing in Frank’s forehead ticked up. “I only enlighten the willing.”

Frank leaned forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, eyes narrowed and searching David’s face. The other man, for his part, tried to maintain a look of blasé innocence.

“Talk,” was all that Frank said. He hated to admit it, but he was actually curious as to what David had to say. Because, as painful as it was, David _did_ have a point, and Frank knew it—he had never been the best at sorting through his own confused jumble of emotions. And—yeah—he’d been having some complicated feelings about Karen for a while. Some complicated, white-knuckled feelings that sometimes left him a little breathless and gutted when he looked at her. So as much as it hurt him to admit, he’d take David’s insight if he was offering it.

“Well,” David made a big show of stroking his hand across his jaw thoughtfully, “you’re a hard guy to read, I’ll give you that. But over the years I’d like to think I’ve become well-versed at recognizing the various mating rituals of the elusive Frank Castle. I’d say I’m somewhat of an expert. Maybe the only one in the world.” David was clearly enjoying himself, if the shit-eating grin on his face was anything to go by. It wasn’t often that Frank let the conversation veer into emotional territory, and David planned to savor the moment. Frank, for his part, was not amused.

“If you’re gonna be a little shit about it—,” he made as though to get up from his chair, and David lurched forward to stay him with a hand on his arm.

“Now, now, Frank,” David shook his head. “Don’t be so hasty.” Frank’s jaw ticked in that dangerous way—the way that said he was running out of patience. But David noticed, with some measure of satisfaction, that in spite of his annoyance, Frank settled back into his seat with little resistance. “I’m just having some fun.”

“I’d appreciate it if your fun wasn’t at my expense,” Frank grunted. Having to turn to David for guidance was painful enough—but adding unnecessary teasing on top of it was a bridge too far.

“Well, one of us should be having fun. From the look on your face, you’d think you were having a fucking root canal, instead of a conversation with a dear and valued friend,” David tried not to sound bitter about it. He did not succeed.

“Yeah, sometimes talking to you _feels_ like a fuckin’ root canal, buddy.”

“Do you want my help or not?” David held his hands out in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.

“No,” Frank managed to speak through painfully-gritted teeth.

“But you _need_ it.” It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

A beat of silence, then:

“Yes.”

David had never heard the word so grudgingly muttered. He let the quiet stretch out between them, as though checking to see that Frank was truly done with his complaining. When he was satisfied, David continued.

“So let’s look at this from my perspective, huh?” He leaned back on the loveseat once more, looking vaguely philosophical. “I’ve known you for a long time, Frank. A long time,” he repeated for emphasis. “And you’re not exactly an easy guy to get along with. I mean, let’s be brutally honest: you’re a bit of a misanthrope. You’re inflexible, you’re unapproachable—you’re stubborn as hell. You can’t handle criticism. It’s practically impossible to pull any sort of real, meaningful, emotional conversation out of you. I mean, you’ve got your walls built up a thousand feet high. And I’m saying this as someone who loves you, man.”

Frank would have been offended, but he was far too self-aware to even pretend David’s assessment was inaccurate. Insulting, sure, but not inaccurate.  Instead, he settled for grumbling in acknowledgement.

“I mean, it took you years to even learn how to tolerate _me,”_ David pressed a hand to his chest. “Some days I’m still not sure you really do.”

Frank snorted, which David took as confirmation.

“So what am I supposed to think when this _Karen_ comes into your life, and all of the sudden…you’re none of those things? Not with _her_.” David leaned forward to make sure he had Frank’s attention. His voice, suddenly, sounded much more serious. Almost pleading. “I mean, come on, man. Look around you.” David gestured to the office, which was filled with little pieces of Karen everywhere he turned. “You’ve allowed this woman to come into your life and just—just turn it into something else. And not in a bad way,” David quickly amended, holding up a hand when he saw Frank frown. “Actually, in a really great way. I mean, this room feels like it’s alive, man. Like it’s a _home_. It’s a fucking office in a university building; that’s as impersonal as it gets. But it feels like a _home._ Do you get how crazy that is? How weird it is for me to see all this, and know that you had a part in creating it?”

Frank wasn’t looking at David. He was focused instead on that throw blanket of Karen’s just over the other man’s shoulder. It was soft and plush—with a pattern of roses stitched around the edges. It was so _not_ Frank. But dammit if he didn’t love that fucking throw blanket. Because it was _Karen’s_ throw blanket. Because she’d bought it the day after she’d walked in on Frank taking a nap on the couch, and thought “I bet he’d sleep better with something warm.” Because it was more than just a blanket.

“And it’s not just the office, Frank. It’s _you_.” David swept his hand up and down in Frank’s direction. “You’re different, man. You talk about Karen all the fucking time. I mean, all the time. I wish you could hear yourself. You’re voice gets all…all _tender_ and shit. It weirded me out at first, gotta be honest.”

Frank scoffed.

“It’s true,” David shook his head. “You talk about her like she’s some kind of magical being that you can’t believe wandered into your life. With, like, this _reverence_ I can’t wrap my mind around. It’s like you’re thinking about her all the time or something.”

And Frank jerked back at that. Because David had hit it right on the mark.

It was true. He thought about Karen constantly—what she was doing, who she was with, if she was having a five-cups-of-coffee kind of day or a just-tea-for-me kind of day. Sometimes, when he was alone, he stopped and thought about the fact that Karen was out there, wherever—talking to other people, making them laugh, telling them crazy stories, caring for them in that quiet, graceful way of hers—and he started to feel jealous. Jealous of the fact that she was somewhere else, saying beautiful things, having soft little moments, making weird little jokes, and he wasn’t there to see them.

_Shit_. Frank’s fingers started doing that fidgety thing they did when he got overwhelmed.

“I just—I don’t know, Frank,” David scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, because from the outside, it looks like you’re head over fucking heels with this woman. I mean, there’s no other explanation.” David smiled, but this time it was sincere—no trace of mocking or mischief. “All I can say is that the Frank I knew about four months ago isn’t the Frank I know now. You just—you seem happy. You seem content. Like you’re, I don’t know, the sunshiney version of yourself. The version of yourself that doesn’t kind of also hate yourself.”

_Fuck_.

David was right. David was so, scarily right. Karen made him feel like he wasn’t so much of an asshole. Made him feel like a functioning, living, breathing _real boy_. Frank knew he could be difficult. Gruff, unfriendly, demanding, exacting. But the moment he crossed that threshold and saw Karen at her desk, making faces as she read through her students’ essays, all of that just dissolved. He became someone who was gentle. Who could be content and unburdened and relaxed. Someone with hands made to hold.

“I mean, just answer me this, Frank,” David waited until he had Frank’s eyes on his own to speak, his voice solemn. “Does it ever scare you sometimes, what you’d be willing to do if she asked you?”

Frank’s answer was a strangled kind of noise—something a little animal. David, being particularly knowledgeable in the numerous nuances of Frank’s grunts, could tell that it was an affirmation.

“Good,” David nodded, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good.”

There was a pause, in which David could almost see Frank’s mind at work. _The idiot_ , he thought, _he really didn’t know he was in love_.

The two men sat for a moment, silent. The office felt saturated in something strong—something that felt like inevitability.

After a minute, David spoke again.

“And, I mean…obviously you’re attracted to her.” Frank recognized the tone of David’s voice—it was the way he spoke when he was trying to lighten the mood after a serious conversation. “I mean,” he shifted in his seat, “I saw pictures of her online. Now, I’m a married man,” David pressed an adamant hand to his chest, “but come on.” He raised an impressed brow at Frank.

Frank chuckled, and the tension in the room broke.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t know how I get any work done.” Frank dragged a hand over his face. “Fuck.” The curse didn’t have any power behind it, only a kind of delighted, terrified resignation.

“Yep, buddy,” David leaned forward and patted Frank’s shoulder. “You’re in love. Scary, huh?”

Frank let out a huff, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

“You know, I find it kind of weird that you needed me to explain that to you,” David picked up his scotch, which he’d abandoned on the arm of the loveseat sometime during the conversation. “I mean, you’ve been in love before. You were married, you moron.”

“Wasn’t the same,” Frank was staring at his hands—his fidgety, restless hands.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t the same?” David furrowed his brow. “Isn’t love just…love?” He wouldn’t know, he’d only been in love once. It had only ever been Sarah for him.

“No, it—it’s just different,” Frank couldn’t find the words to explain what he meant, and that was an uncomfortable sensation. “Just—just more, this time. More of everything.”

Falling in love with Maria had felt like jumping off of a cliff. It had happened so fast—too fast for Frank to even think. One moment he was just Frank, and then the next, he was in love, and married, and a father. Like he’d tipped over the edge, and fallen into this new life. And maybe that’s why their marriage hadn’t lasted—you can only free fall for so long before you hit the ground.

Falling love with Karen had felt like falling asleep in the bathtub—letting go one muscle at a time and sinking into something warm and safe. Like waking up slowly on a Saturday morning and knowing that nothing in the world could touch you so long as you stayed in bed. Like going home. And that, somehow, was just so much _more_. He had built something with Karen—he hadn’t just fallen into her—he’d created something with her.

That’s probably why he hadn’t recognized the feeling earlier; he’d never felt it before. Never felt it like _this._

“Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered, “I need another fuckin’ drink.”

 

_Karen Page, you are such a fucking coward._ As Karen stepped into the cool night, leaving the warm, whiskey air of the bar behind, the thought entered her mind unbidden. _A spineless coward_.

Hitching her bag further up her shoulder and shoving her hands ruthlessly into her pockets, Karen shook her head at the thought, as though she could make it go away. She’d just spent the past two hours sitting at the bar with Trish, trying to go over some changes to the other woman’s dissertation proposal. _Trying_ being the operative word. Because the entire time, all Trish wanted to talk about was why Karen hadn’t admitted her feelings to Frank yet. Every time Karen had asked a question about a source for the lit review, or about how the dissertation panel selection was coming along, Trish had countered with a question about Karen’s cowardly refusal to just make a confession already. An embarrassing amount of time had passed, uneventfully, since the afternoon of the pit bull video, and Karen was still carrying around her feelings for Frank like her own private burden.

Avoiding a puddle of what looked disturbingly like vomit, Karen continued her trek back to campus, and wondered (not for the first time), why she’d bothered to tell Trish about her _situation._ The woman was so nosy—as all natural-born reporters were. It was just that—god—it was so _nice_ to have female friends to confide in, and Karen had never been any good at keeping her feelings bottled up inside. They always needed to find an outlet—and Trish had been Karen’s outlet. Karen’s nosey, over-involved outlet.

It’s not that she didn’t want to tell Frank about her feelings. She _did_ —or at least she _thought_ she did. Of course she had some apprehensions about the whole thing: What if he didn’t feel the same way about her? What if it made things awkward between them? What if their entire friendship fell apart because of it?

But she also had a lot of hope—hope that he would be understanding. Hope that he would maybe—just maybe—return her feelings. Hope that, even if he didn’t, their friendship would be strong enough to overcome the awkwardness that would inevitably ensue.

And Karen was _brave_ , damnit. It was part of her identity—something she felt defined her. Unafraid of new experiences, unafraid of failure, unafraid of getting hurt. Which was why it was so annoying that she had such a mental block about telling Frank how she felt. But it just seemed so…so fucking _important_. Massive. Life-altering.

Karen smiled and waved at one of her students, who was frantically running to the bus stop, as she reached the outer edge of campus. She wondered if Frank would be in the office when she arrived—he didn’t have the kids this weekend, and he liked to use the Fridays they were with Maria to spend some guy-time with Curtis. If he was there, Karen resolved, tonight would be the night she would tell him. She was sure of it.

But then again, she’d made the same resolution a million times over the past few weeks. She was going to tell him over Chinese food last week, but had ended up distracted by his explanation of how quarks had been discovered. Then she had planned on telling him a few days later, as they sat in the car on the way to a party at Foggy’s (at which she had avoided Matt like the plague)…but she’d lost her nerve when Frank started singing along to Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Shining Star” under his breath, and she’d fallen in love with him all over again. And, more recently, when Frank had come over to her house to watch the premier of that ridiculous fantasy show she liked to watch on HBO, but she’d decided she didn’t want to tell Frank she loved him with an incestuous sex scene playing in the background.

So maybe Karen wasn’t that great at keeping this particular resolution. She huffed out a sigh, watching her breath become mist in the chilly air, and tilted her head back to look up at the stars. She supposed, in the grand scheme of things, that this wasn’t so terrible a dilemma. She was lucky, she told herself, if the most pressing issue in her life was how to tell a man she loved him. What a beautiful problem to have. To be capable of love—to be filled with the stuff—to the point of overflowing. As she walked forward, breathing deeply of the winter-sweet air, Karen felt a brief and startling rush of euphoria—felt, for a mere moment, how unbelievably magnificent it was to be alive. To be breathing and heaving along; to be on the brink of something huge. And as quickly as the feeling had rushed upon her, it faded away, leaving Karen with a mystified feeling.

As she neared the Physics building, she looked up toward the window of the office. Noticing the light was still on, her breath caught in her throat. He was there—she would tell him tonight. Surrounded by the little home they’d made together, out of books and ungraded papers and takeout cartons, she would tell him that she loved him.

She paused a moment, to watch the play of shadows as they danced before the window. She saw what was clearly Frank’s shadow move across the back wall of the office—then her heart sank as she saw another shadow follow close behind.

_Shit._ Frank had company.

Karen scuffed the toe of her boot along the sidewalk, and contemplated turning around and just going home. She didn’t want to interrupt whatever he had going on—probably Curtis stopping by before they left for “boy’s night.” But then she remembered that she’d left her laptop on her desk, charging. And she couldn’t go the entire weekend without her laptop. With a sigh, because her big confession would have to wait, she made her way into the building.

 

“No, no, no, that’s not what happened.” David’s voice, he knew, was beginning to slide ever-closer into “drunk slurring” territory, but he wasn’t too bothered. That’s the thing about being tipsy—you’re _neve_ r bothered by anything when you’re tipsy.  “Listen, listen,” David reached out in an attempt to grab Frank by the shoulder, but leaned forward a little too far and almost slid right off of the floor cushion he was sitting on. Catching himself quickly, he continued adamantly. “ _You_ were the one who gave Lisa the baseball bat, Frank, not me. So technically it was your fault.”

“But _you_ were the one that gave her the ball, David.” Frank, while beginning to show his own signs of inebriation (glassy, unfocused eyes; diminished coordination), was slightly less tipsy than David. He, at least, was able to maintain an upright position on top of his own floor cushion. “If I’m gonna take the blame for giving her the bat, then you gotta take the blame for the ball.”

“But—”

“Nuh uh,” Frank pointed sharply at David, cutting him off. His arm barely avoided knocking over the almost-empty bottle of scotch that sat between them on the coffee table. “You were _also_ the one that bet her she couldn’t hit a ball over the roof. Like an idiot.”

“I—hey—,” David held his hands up defensively. “How was I supposed to know she’d actually try to do it? I’m not a—a—,” David searched for the right word; couldn’t find it. “A person who knows the future.” Close enough.

 “You—but,” Frank sputtered, disbelieving. “Have you _met_ my kid, Lieberman? How could you _not_ know she’d try?”

“Yeah but, I mean, how was I supposed to know she’d break three windows?” David was grasping at straws. “I thought she’d, y’know, have better aim!”

“She was _eight_ ,” Frank exclaimed, exasperated.

“Yeah, but—I mean,” David made some vague gesture with his hands—Frank wasn’t sure what it was supposed to signify, “she was a very mature eight.”

“Sarah agreed with me that it was your fault,” Frank shook his head.

“Yeah, but Sarah—,” David stopped suddenly, his eyes unfocusing on Frank and refocusing on something else (with great effort). Frank watched, puzzled, as David’s facial expression changed almost instantly into something he could only describe as manic glee. “Well hello there!”

Frank turned around, following the direction of David’s gaze, and saw Karen standing in the doorway of the office, a dumbfounded look on her face. She looked like all of his fantasies come to life.

“Karen.”                                                                                                         

David may have been slightly-sloshed, but even in his altered state, he noticed the way that Frank said her name—in that soft, thoughtful little way. Like even just speaking it out loud was a privilege he couldn’t believe he had. It was still a little disconcerting for David to hear.

“Well now I know how it feels to be the only one who wasn’t invited to the party,” Karen leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and a smile fighting its way to her face.

“That was my entire life story in high school,” David muttered. Karen snorted, tilting her head in David’s direction with curiosity. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that it was generally considered polite to introduce yourself to people you hadn’t yet met. “Oh, I—,” he attempted to jump up from his cross-legged position on the cushion, but snagged his foot on the leg of the coffee table in the process, tumbling to the ground instead.

Karen jerked forward, arms out, as though in attempt to catch him. Frank, whose reactions were slowed by the scotch, reached out to help a solid three seconds too late, and let his arms drop limply to his sides.

“Well shit,” David didn’t even make an attempt to get up. He just laid on the floor, sprawled out, staring up at Karen. “I’m David. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I, uh—I actually know who you are,” Karen managed to stifle her laughter long enough to approach David and offer him a hand. “I’ve seen your picture before. I’m Karen.”

David took her hand, and she leaned back, using her weight to hoist him into a sitting position. Instead of releasing her hand once he was upright, David shook it (with a little too much zeal).

“Back atcha, Karen,” David’s grin was downright ridiculous. “About seeing your picture, I mean.”

Frank, who had been watching the exchange with trepidation, decided to cut in. He wasn’t entirely sure David could be trusted to talk to Karen while drunk—the man had never been particularly fantastic about keeping secrets while sober, and he tended to get extra chatty when he was buzzed.

“Uh, sorry about taking over the office, Kare. We can be out of your hair if you need the space,” Frank watched Karen release David’s hand and turn toward him with a smile. For a moment, Frank felt his heart squeeze roughly in his chest at that look. He’d had a similar reaction to her smile before, but now he had a name for it. Now he knew why it hit him with such inescapable force.

“Don’t be ridiculous Frank,” Karen dismissed him with a wave of her hand, “I wouldn’t ruin your fun. Just came to grab my laptop.” She pointed over her shoulder to her desk.

“Oh, you should stay!” David clapped his hands together. “We were just reminiscing about the time Frank let his daughter hit a baseball through my front window!”

“That is _not_ what happened,” Frank glared pointedly at David, “and I’m sure Karen has more important things to do.”

“Uh,” Karen looked back at her laptop, which was waiting for her with a half-finished syllabus, “I actually don’t really have anything else going on.”

“See!” David threw his hands up. “It’s cosmic, uh,” he cast about to find the right word, “It’s—kismet! The lady has no place to go on a Friday night, and we’re having a party. Meant to be.”

Frank gritted his teeth. If Karen stayed the evening, the chances of David saying something terrible and embarrassing shot way up. But he also didn’t like the idea of Karen going home alone to an empty apartment when she could be here, with him.

“You sure you don’t have something you need to do?” Frank looked at Karen, who was grinning at David, obviously entertained by his befuddled state. “You don’t have to humor us or anything.”

“Nope,” Karen shook her head, sending her curls flying back and forth. In his tipsy state, Frank thought they looked even more like spun gold than normal.

“Oh, ignore him,” David scoffed at Frank. “He’s just worried I’ll say something embarrassing to you. Like tell you about the time he gave blood without eating beforehand, and when I went to pick him up and take him to lunch, he passed out in the Chipotle.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank put his head in his hands. He was going to regret this entire night, he could already tell.

David laughed, patting the floor cushion next to his own in an invitation for Karen to sit. She cast a quick glance in Frank’s direction, silently asking his permission—she really didn’t want to intrude on their time, as she knew that Frank didn’t get to see David all that often. When he shrugged resignedly, she took her seat next to David (who noticed, with utter delight, that Karen reached out to subtly squeeze Frank’s forearm in ‘hello’ as she sat).

“That story sounds amazing.” Karen unbuttoned her coat, tossing it in the general direction of the coat rack. “Do go on.”

“Actually, uh,” David looked confused for a moment. “I think that _was_ the whole story.”

Karen almost choked on an unexpected laugh.

“But,” David was quick to add, “I have a lot more where that one came from.”

“Careful, buddy,” Frank raised a warning brow at his friend, “you’re not the only one with ammo here.”

“Yes, but all the stories you have about me are charming,” David planted an elbow on the coffee table and cupped his chin in his hand, grinning widely. “I’m a charming man.”

“Not nearly so much as you think you are,” Frank rolled his eyes with a smile.

Karen watched the interaction with great interest. It was so fascinating to see Frank converse with David—to see him so at ease with someone who wasn’t her. There was an affection behind Frank’s eyes that warmed Karen right down to her toes.

“Alright, alright,” David sighed, “I’ll only tell the stories that make you look good. Though I don’t have as many of those.”

Frank grabbed a pen from on top of the coffee table and flung it at David’s head. David’s reactions were too slow to be of much help, but luckily Frank’s aim was equally as impaired, so the pen missed by inches.

Karen shook her head, lips quirking. “I feel bad that I don’t have someone here threatening to tell all of _my_ embarrassing stories.”

“Well, you’ll just have to tell them yourself,” David reached behind himself to find the discarded pen. He flung it back at Frank, who didn’t even attempt to dodge it, it was so off-course.

“I’m afraid Frank already knows most of my embarrassing stories,” Karen sent Frank a look that David could only call ‘lovesick.’ _Jesus, these two,_ he thought with an internal sigh.

“Well I don’t,” David pinned Karen with an eager look. “And that hardly seems fair.”

And that was how Frank ended up sitting on the floor of the office listening to Karen recount the story about how she had been absent on the day they taught sex-ed in 6th grade, and had been so scared there’d be a quiz over it when she got back, that she locked herself in the hallway closet with the encyclopedia and read the entry on “sex.”

(Just as it had the first time, the story had him laughing and groaning in equal parts).

This had been followed up by an anecdote from David—about the time he’d tried to scare his kids on Halloween by turning the house into a haunted mansion while they were at school, only to succeed so tremendously that Zach literally shit his pants. _That_ , somehow, turned into David talking about how much his kids loved their Uncle Frank _._ Frank had a sneaking suspicion that David had willfully steered the conversation in that direction in order to talk him up to Karen. Play wingman.

It worked, because as Karen sat there, engrossed in David’s story about the time Frank taught Leo to play “Smoke on the Water” on the guitar, she felt those soft parts of her heart devoted solely to Frank thump wildly.

Frank was content to watch his best friend and the woman he recently realized he was in love with bond. Occasionally, he did interject a correction when he felt that David was telling a story inaccurately (which was often, because David was prone to exaggeration). But for the most part, he sat and listened as Karen charmed the pants off of a slowly-sobering David (as he knew she would), while David did a little charming of his own. There was an entire stretch of conversation that left Frank baffled, as David and Karen realized they were both super fans of the _Discworld_ series. This led to a long and winding conversation about how amazing Terry Pratchett was (Karen went off on her little rant, one Frank had heard many times before, about how Pratchett was the world’s most severely-underrated fantasy author). It was nice, seeing everything just click. Karen made sense here—with him. In his life.

It wasn’t until two in the morning that David finally decided to call it quits. Frank was surprised that his friend had lasted that long, as he wasn’t exactly a night owl these days.

“Alright kids,” David had managed to speak around a yawn, “I’d love to do the whole all-nighter thing with you, but I’m shit out of energy.” He stretched with his arms above his head, and his back made a rather disturbing popping noise. God, he was getting old.

“You need a ride to the hotel?” Frank began patting at his pockets, looking for his keys.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” David pulled out his phone. “Uber’s easier. I’m trying to get my 4.8 passenger rating up to a 5 anyway. Don’t know why the fuck I got docked .2 points.”

“I’m surprised your rating is that high, honestly,” Frank muttered, shaking his head.

“Hey—I’m a great passenger. Very polite. And extremely not-murdery. Which, y’know, is important.” David began gathering up his coat and his scarf, bundling up to protect against the chilly, early morning air.

Karen stood up to say her goodbyes.

“It was great meeting you, David,” her voice was muffled by the big bear hug he pulled her into, with her face smashed against his scratchy scarf.

“You have no idea how great it was,” David gave her a squeeze before releasing her. Frank shrugged when Karen shot him a quick, amused look.

“Am I gonna see you again before you leave?” Frank asked.

“Well Sarah wants me to stop by Maria’s on Sunday to pick up a casserole dish we left at her place forever ago. Apparently, it’s a very important casserole dish. So if you stop by, then yeah,” David was looking at his phone, so he didn’t see the way Frank froze up at the mention of Maria.

But Karen did. It was so strange—every time the conversation veered toward mention of his ex-wife, Frank got a little cagey. Like he wasn’t exactly comfortable talking about the other woman with Karen. And she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why; everything else seemed to be fair game with Frank, but only Maria was a topic _non grata_.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll definitely stop by,” Frank sounded a little guarded—a little uncomfortable. He grabbed his own coat from the rack. “Let me see you off man.”

Karen stayed behind in the office as Frank walked David to the curb to wait for his ride. She wanted to give them some alone time to say goodbye.

Whenever Frank left the office, he seemed to take a majority of the air with him. It felt colder when it was just Karen—lonely.

With a sigh, she sat on one of the floor cushions, then decided that she needed to lay down, grabbing another one to pad her head. Staring up at the ceiling, with its cracked crown molding, she thought about the Maria problem.

Not that Maria herself was a problem. Just that Frank’s unwillingness to even broach the subject of Maria felt a little…off. Usually, when a man didn’t want to talk about his ex, it was for one of two reasons: he was either still bitter about the break-up, or he was still in love. Karen knew that it wasn’t the former with Frank—there was no anger there, not toward his ex-wife. He never seemed tense or irritable after picking up his kids at her place, or spending the afternoon with her at Lisa’s baseball games.

But she also didn’t think it was the latter—or, at least, she hoped it wasn’t. As far as she could tell, Frank actually kind of liked Maria’s new boyfriend. She didn’t think a man still in love with his ex-wife would be so forgiving of a romantic rival.

Which left Karen confused. She couldn’t think of any other reason he would get so damn tense every time Maria was mentioned. (She, of course, did not even consider the most obvious reason of all—that Frank wasn’t sure how to bring up the woman he used to be in love with to the woman he was currently in love with).

After a few minutes, Karen began to drift off, her eyes growing heavy. She was awoken what felt like mere moments later by a gentle hand on her head. She cracked her eyes open to see Frank crouching over her, his thumb rubbing across her temple.

“Time to go home?” His voice was quiet, and he smelled like crisp, outside air. Karen breathed deep.

“No. Not tired,” Karen shook her head. She wanted to talk.

Frank raised a skeptical brow, but the adamant look on Karen’s face brokered no argument. She had that “we need to talk” look. With Karen, that look never terrified him the way it did when other people wore it. Karen’s “we need to talk” was always gentle. With a sigh, he tapped her head lightly. “Up.”

Karen lifted her head, and Frank took its place on the cushion.

They sat, facing each other, nothing between them, close enough that the toe of Karen’s right foot brushed Frank’s knee. The position should have felt strange; a little too intimate. But it didn’t. It felt natural. There was something about the atmosphere at that moment—the way a room always feels after it’s been cleared of good company—like the lingering effects of comradery still hang about. It felt like the kind of space where a man like Frank and a woman like Karen could rest against each other.

There was a moment of silence—relaxing, comfortable silence—then Karen spoke.

“You never talk about Maria.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Said in that way Karen had when she was trying to set the topic of conversation; letting you know that _this_ is what you were going to talk about, regardless of your feelings on the subject.

Frank made a kind of grunting noise. Karen, like David, knew him well enough to recognize it as a confirmation that he was listening.

“I just…” Karen trailed off a little bit, biting her lip. “I just think it’s strange, y’know? You talk about your kids all the time. About David. And even Curtis. But not Maria.”

“Does that bother you?” Frank began to absent-mindedly pick at a loose thread on the seam of his jeans.

“No,” Karen shook her head. “You don’t have to talk about things you don’t want to. That never bothers me. I was just curious.”

“Hmmm,” Frank made a considering noise. After a moment, he nodded to himself. “Do you—” he thought about how to phrase the question. “Are you curious about her?”

Karen brought her hand up, chewing the end of her thumbnail thoughtfully. “Yeah, I kind of am.”

“Why?” His voice was quiet—curious.

“I guess because,” Karen lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Because I feel like I know everything else about your life. Except for the parts that have to do with her.” 

“Okay,” Frank nodded again, rolling his shoulders. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” Karen pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She looked so small that way, Frank felt something delicate twinge in his chest.

“Uhm,” Frank scratched the back of his neck. “She lives in Westchester. She works in the HR department of a pharmaceutical company. She’s on the PTA, but she hates it. She plays tennis with her friends on the weekends. She has one brother, who—”

Karen interrupted him with a chuckle. “I feel like you’re giving me a fast facts sheet about her, Frank. I don’t need to know her social security number.”

“Well you’re the reporter, Page.” Frank cocked his head to the side and smirked. “Ask better questions.”

“Okay, uhm,” Karen scrunched her nose in thought. “How’d you meet?”

“I was getting my Master’s in Material’s Science at MIT. She was working in a little bakery across the street from the library. I had my eye on her for a while before I got up the nerve to ask her out. And the rest is history,” Frank shrugged.

“’The rest is history’?” Karen scoffed. “You can’t just end a story with ‘the rest is history.’ It’s bad storytelling.”

“Oh, well _excuse_ me,” Frank grinned. “Didn’t know I was being graded on my handling of narrative, Dr. Page.”

“Sorry,” Karen didn’t look at all apologetic. “Continue.”

“Uh. We dated for three months before she got pregnant. Asked her to marry me the day she broke the news. We were together for five years.” Frank pinned Karen with a pointed look. “That better?”

“Not much, but it’s something. You are definitely not a natural-born storyteller,” Karen shook her head sadly.

“I’m a scientist, Kare. Not Dr. Seuss,” Frank nudged Karen with his foot.

“Thank God for that,” Karen frowned, “His books always creeped me out as a kid.”

Frank chuckled, shaking his head. Karen was always dropping strange little tidbits about her life into conversation, and then never explaining them. He supposed it was just part of her appeal—she was mystifying.

Karen played with the hem of her shirt as she thought.

“What’s she like? Y’know, as a person?”

Frank didn’t quite know how to answer that. Some days he thought he knew Maria like he knew himself, and other days she felt like a stranger. People were like that, he supposed—full of secrets and contradictions and private little corners. And maybe that was part of the problem with the two of them, he’d never learned how to uncover all the parts of Maria that she kept hidden away.

After a moment of thought, Frank spoke.

“She’s…a great mother. Just a natural at it—compassionate, understanding, but tough. Doesn’t let those kids get away with anything. If they turn out alright, it’ll be because of her,” Frank glanced up at the ceiling.

Karen poked his thigh in a “go on” kind of gesture. “Uh, she’s traditional, I guess. When we were married, she did the whole wife staying home with the kids thing. She grew up Catholic, so--y’know--very concerned with doing things the ‘right way.’ A lot of times we didn’t really agree what the ‘right way’ was. Or if it even existed.” Frank sighed. He looked down at Karen, whose eyes were somewhere far off. When she noticed his pause, she glanced at him.

“More,” she said quietly. “I like hearing you talk like this.”

“She’s—uh, a very passionate person. She loves really hard, and she hates maybe harder. Everything’s black and white to her—no shades of gray. Makes her hell to argue with. Just unable to compromise; unable to see anyone else’s side.”

Frank began to fidget a little bit, picking at a loose thread on the floor cushion. Karen watched the movements of his fingers.

“She’s stubborn as hell, too. Doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight. Doesn’t believe in it.” He paused. “But she’s loyal to a fault, and fearless. And generous—gives a lot of herself to other people.” Frank was a little bit surprised how effortlessly all of this was coming out. It might have been Karen—how easy it was to be honest when she was watching him with those understanding eyes—and it may have been the fact that he’d been holding all of this inside of him for far too long.

“She sounds like an amazing person,” Karen’s smile was far away, as she tried to hold an image of Maria in her mind. Tried to piece her together with Frank’s words.

“Yeah, she is. I think you two would get along.” Frank tapped a knuckled against Karen’s knee gently.

Karen thought for a moment, about how to best ask her next question.

“So why, uh—” Karen squirmed a little, nervously. “Why didn’t it work out with you two?”

Frank had been expecting it, so he wasn’t surprised. Of course she’d want to know about the break-up—wasn’t that always the most dramatic part? Frank might not have been a great storyteller, but people, he knew, liked endings. They liked to have a tidy little bow wrapped around their stories.

“Well,” Frank let out a puff of air, “we only dated for three months before we got married. You know, those three months are exciting; the honeymoon period,” Frank ran a hand over his jaw. “Lots to talk about—your past, your family, your future. It’s like, just getting to know someone else—it takes up all your time.” He dropped his hand to pick at the cushion again. “Then she was pregnant, and we were talking about the kid nonstop. Planning, panicking. And then the wedding—all the arrangements and preparations. Then we actually _had_ the kid, and your life just becomes being a parent. Talking about school and sports and punishments and how to not fuck them up for life.”

Karen was captivated—she always was whenever Frank spoke like this, candidly. He didn’t often talk about himself for more than a moment at a time, but when he did, Karen was mesmerized.

“Being a parent—I mean, that shit consumes your life. You just forget how to be the person you were before. And you forget how to be a couple. Strong couples—they survive. Because they remember what it was like to just be the two of them, as a team,” Frank paused, staring off. “Maria and I…we weren’t together long enough to get to that place before being Mom and Dad. We skipped passed that whole stage.”

“So what happened? You just…woke up one day and realized you…” Karen trailed off, unsure, “you just weren’t in love anymore?”

“Actually, something like that,” Frank tilted his head in a half-nod. “We went out on a date this one night, and we made this rule, right? That we wouldn’t talk about the kids? Not even once—no kid talk. And it was…it was rough. We sat there, for two hours, with nothing to say to each other.”

Karen tried to imagine it—sitting across from Frank without anything to say. Tried to imagine feeling awkward or unsure around him. She found that she couldn’t.

“We just…I guess we didn’t really have anything in common, y’know? Didn’t remember how to talk to each other. We’d never learned.” Frank ran a hand across his jaw. “We’d gone from getting to know each other, to being married with kids so quickly. Never took the time to figure out if we worked together.”

“Hmmm.” Karen chewed her bottom lip, brow furrowed. She’d only been in love once before Frank, and it had ended badly. Like ‘I will call the cops if you show up at my apartment again’ badly. So she couldn’t imagine love ending any other way—ending peacefully, on its own time. “Do you still love her?”

Frank jerked back, surprised. He had not been expecting _that_ question.

“I mean,” Karen was quick to clarify, “like, in the way that one human being loves another human being. Generally.”

“Generally?” Frank frowned, confused.

“You know, in a—” Karen gesticulated vaguely, searching for a way to explain herself. “In a kind of ‘you’re terrific at being a human and I’m glad you exist’ kind of way.”

“You’re asking me if I’m glad my ex-wife exists?” Frank chuckled.

“No—I mean, obviously you’re glad she _exists_ , I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Frank gave a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Think I always will love her. I’m just not _in love_ with her.”

Karen knew as much, but it was still a relief to hear him say it.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and Frank’s grin slid into something a little softer.

Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to grow thicker; become heavy with something that felt an awful lot like anticipation. Karen became newly aware of just how close she and Frank were sitting. She could even see the tiny laugh lines beginning to form at the outer corners of his eyes; could probably count his lashes if she tried.

She’d forgotten, over the years, that love could be such a _physical_ sensation. That it was more than just the head and heart that got involved, but the body as well. That it could make your spine tingle so deliciously—that it could make your skin feel like it was buzzing. The pull deep in her gut ached pleasantly when she looked at Frank, and Karen smiled. It felt so good to be alive. It felt so good to _want_ this strongly.

Frank noticed his heart begin to thud uncontrollably in his chest, as his eyes flitted over Karen’s face. She was just so fucking beautiful, staring at him like that. With those wide, gentle eyes, and that sleepy little smile. Looking at him like she had all the time in the world—like everything she had was there, in the room, between the two of them.

“I—” Frank spoke, and his voice came out husky. Karen’s fingers twitched with the sudden desire to reach out and drag down his throat, feel the vibrations of that deep, low voice pulse through them. She curled them into her palms instead.

He cleared his voice—tried again. “I learned a lot from Maria. About myself.”

“Oh yeah?” Karen’s voice was equally as wrecked—breathy.

“About what I want.” Frank’s eyes darted down to Karen’s lips, so quickly that she didn’t register the glance. “About what I need.”

“And what would that be?” Karen felt herself swaying slightly, almost imperceptibly, closer to Frank. He noticed, with singular interest, the way her bottom lip was glistening. _Fuck_.

He was going to do it. He was going to tell her.

He could taste the words on his tongue—sweet and right.

“Karen, I—”

The chorus of Styx’s “Mr. Roboto” cut through the thick undercurrent of breathless tension that permeated the room. Karen jerked back at the sound, startled.

“Motherfucker,” Frank muttered under his breath. _David_. He wouldn’t answer the phone for anyone else, but if David was calling, it was probably important. He jammed his hand into his back pocket—a little more violently than strictly necessary—and ripped out his phone.

“David?” The man’s name came out like a bad word. And, at that moment, it _felt_ like a bad word

Karen watched while Frank listened to whatever David had to say, observing the play of emotions flit across his face, mostly exasperation and disbelief.

“Are you sure you don’t—.” A pause; a sigh. “Well, did you check—?” Another pause. A heavier sigh. Then resigned acceptance.

“Yeah. I’ll find it. Give me a minute and I’ll be there.” Frank hung up, his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Everything okay?” Karen’s voice vacillated somewhere between concerned and strained.

“David left his wallet here. It’s got his key card in it. And the concierge won’t give him the spare without his ID, which,” Frank groaned as he stood up, “is in his wallet.”

“Oh, well,” Karen bit her lip uncertainly. “I guess I should probably be getting home anyway. It’s late—uh, early.” She corrected, massaging the back of her neck. A small part of her was hoping that Frank would say something else—anything else—to address the moment from earlier. To at least recognize that _something_ had been happening there.

Instead, he just looked at her over his shoulder as he rummaged around for David’s phone, something tight and pulsing in his eyes. Something she couldn’t even begin to name.

“Want me to drive you home?” He found the phone under the loveseat, sliding it into his pocket as he watched Karen shrug into her coat.

“No, that’s okay,” Karen smiled mildly. “I want to walk. The cold air will keep me awake.”

“Okay.” Frank stood a little awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

“Okay.” Karen nodded to herself. She paused a moment, mulling something over in her head. Then she took three steps across the office toward Frank.

“Thank you,” she spoke quietly, leaning forward with her hand on his arm, brushing a kiss against his cheek. In a moment, all of Frank’s awareness centered in on the feeling of her lips against his skin.

“For what?” He barely breathed it out.

“For everything, Frank,” Karen shrugged lightly, releasing his arm. “For being exactly who you are, I guess.”

By the time Frank was able to respond, Karen had already waved goodbye and walked out the door. He waited until he heard the elevator ding open before letting out a long string of expletives.

He was going to kill David.


	4. Though You Ask for One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied. One more chapter. Or not a real chapter. Just an epilogue. ALSO SMUT WARNING.

“Okay, so explain to me again _exactly_ what happened last night—because I’m still a little bit confused here.” Trish was staring at Karen over the rim of her martini, her eyes narrowed in that determined look she got when she was trying to crack a lead. Like there was no escaping her questioning.

“I’ve told you every detail five times now,” Karen groaned, barely resisting the urge to let her head drop to the table with a thud. Instead, she occupied her hands stirring the straw round and round her vodka cranberry, watching the wedge of lime she’d thrown in swirl about. “We talked, there was tension, I thought he was going to—I don’t know—kiss me or something, and then he had to leave. What’s there to be confused about?”

“If the ‘tension’ was as sexually-charged as you say it was, then I’m confused about _how on earth_ Frank could have just walked away from you like that?” Trish used a toothpick to stab the olive in her drink, waving it about for emphasis. “I mean, come on. He’s only human. And you’re _you_.” She gestured at Karen with the olive, and a few drops of martini went flying.

“Well, like I said, he—”

“Oh my _god,”_ Karen was interrupted by a loud and impatient groan from Jessica Jones, who was sagging in her chair looking painfully disinterested. “When you invited me to go for a drink, I thought we’d actually have _fun._ Not sit around all night dissecting the play-by-play of Karen’s _almost kiss._ ” She ran a hand down her tired face. “I feel like I’m at a sleepover and we’re about to pull out a game of _Dream Phone_. Kill me now.”

“Come on, Jess. How can you not be interested in this? It’s like a real-life romantic drama. All the pining and the tension and the ‘will-they-won’t-they.’” Trish smacked her friend on the arm, which earned her a scowl. “It’s sweet.”

“I’d be more interested if they’d actually boned last night,” Jessica tilted her head to the side, considering. “I’d actually sit through a play-by-play of that.”

“Oh Jesus,” Karen shook her head, then let it fall into her hands. “Why did I think getting Jess involved in this would be a good idea?”

Karen and Jessica had met a few weeks ago, when Jess had swung by Trish’s office to pick her up for drinks. They usually met up at the bar, seeing as Jess hated setting foot on the university campus, with its air of smothering pretention, but Trish had been running late. Karen had been there helping her sort through the intricacies of writing an IRB proposal, and ended up tagging along for their “girl’s night.” Jessica had been a little wary at first, as she didn’t have the best track record with making girlfriends, but Karen had been surprisingly easy to get along with. They had struck up a friendship, which Jess had already used to her advantage, mining some of Karen’s journalism contacts for a case she’d been working on involving a congressman and a callgirl. Sitting across from each other at a shabby table in a low-rent bar, it felt like they’d been friends for ages, rather than weeks.

“Jess, you can’t just say ‘bone’!” Trish looked aghast. “It makes you sound like a thirteen year old boy.” Jess rolled her eyes at that, taking a loud, defiant slurp from her Jack and Coke. “Though, I guess imagining Frank and Karen having sex _is_ pretty hot _.”_ Trish amended, pursing her lips in thought.

“I am regretting this so much,” Karen just knew she was blushing beet red, and scrubbed her hands over her face in an attempt to hide it.

“What?! It’s true,” Trish tossed her hair over her shoulder and rested her cheek on her palm. “He’s so big and muscular and masculine. I mean, that _jaw_. And those hands, my _god_. And you—” she used her free hand to gesture at Karen, who had slumped down in her seat in embarrassment.  “I mean, you’re basically the universal ideal of beauty. The two of you together would be _explosive_.”

“Okay, keep it in your pants there, Walker. It looks like you’re about to give Page a heart attack,” Jessica lifted her icy glass and pressed it against Karen’s forehead. She jumped at the freezing contact, and was surprised to realize just how hot she’d become.

“Ugh, I can’t help it!” Trish shook her head, running a finger around the rim of her martini glass. “I haven’t seen any action in months, and I’m forced to live vicariously through your thing with Frank.”

Karen was suddenly glad that the bar they had been sitting in for the last few hours was nearly-deserted, because Trish was reaching that point of inebriation where volume control became a real issue. But the grizzled, old man nursing a G&T by the pool tables didn’t seem to mind, and neither did the girl in the back corner who had been chain smoking and reading what looked like _Catcher in the Rye._

“You want to talk about sexual frustration?” Jessica took a long gulp of her drink, downing it completely before slamming the glass onto the table. “Then I’m your girl. Haven’t gotten laid since Luke got together with that nurse he’s been seeing.”

“Jesus, that was like five months ago!” Trish made a face, raising her hand to let the bored-looking barback know that their table was ready for another round. “How have you survived that long?”

Karen cringed inwardly—she hadn’t had sex in over a year. She decided to keep that fact to herself.

“Oh, y’know,” Jess shrugged with a dark little smile. “Making use of the goodies in my nightstand. Eating too much junk food. Drinking.” Her next round of Jack and Coke came just in time, and she took a long sip for emphasis.

“Some real healthy coping mechanisms there, Jones.” Karen shook her head, nudging Jessica’s leg under the table with her own.

“Oreos and whiskey haven’t let me down yet,” Jess lifted her glass in a salute. “So I’m gonna stick with ‘em.”

“Man,” Trish sighed deeply, “I haven’t found a good substitute for sex.” She dipped her finger in the remnants of her martini, dragging it along the edge of the glass until it sang. “You know, the hardest part of being sexually-frustrated is missing the intimacy. Just wanting to be held. Not even the sex, really, but being so close to somebody, y’know?”

“Nope.” Jess shook her head.

“Yeah,” Karen ran a hand through her hair, nodding.

“See, Karen gets me,” Trish threw a wadded-up napkin at Jess, who let it hit her forehead and roll away.

And it was true—Karen _did_ get it. Which was strange, because she’d never been the kind of person who was preoccupied with sex—who fantasized and got swept up in desire. It had been a long time since her last relationship, and she didn’t go in for one night stands, which left her sorely lacking in the “getting laid” department. But the shortage of sex had never really bothered her all that much; she was a busy woman, and had no problem filling her day in ways that took her mind off of her self-imposed celibacy.

At least, she had no problem _before_ she met Frank. Since walking into the office that first day and seeing him behind his desk—glasses perched on his nose, hair blown askew from the windy afternoon, looking downright edible in a dress shirt rolled up to the elbow—her imagination had slowly become a fucking Danielle Steele novel.

She couldn’t help it. Over the past four months, she’d found herself slipping into Frank-themed fantasies more and more often. They had started off innocently enough—little daydreams about Frank as a brawny, daring sailor in his cable-knit sweaters, poised on the bow of a fishing boat, wind in his hair. Or the week he’d been too busy to shave, she’d imagined him as a lumberjack—chopping wood with his torso bare, all that muscular, tanned flesh dotted in sweat. It was ridiculous, really; her little trips of the imagination had her feeling like a teenager again.  She hadn’t let herself slip into those kinds of girlish fancies since her days of having a crush on Taylor Hanson. But she figured that, given a little time, her over-active imagination would tire of Frank and move on.

 Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it), those daydreams only increased in frequency. And slowly grew into something a little more… _titillating._ Images of his long, rough fingers stroking her body; his lips running down the column of her neck; the stubble on that sharp jaw scratching along the insides of her thighs. It was almost embarrassing, how often she caught herself drifting off into a lurid daydream while Frank was bent over his filing cabinet to look for an answer key, or rearranging the books on his shelf for maximum efficiency. Her favorite daydream, by far, involved him sweeping all of his color-coded binders off his desk and making her head go fuzzy. She felt a little guilty for her fantasies, sure, but not terribly so. She was, after all, only human, and Frank was unfairly handsome.

The strangest turn of events, however, had occurred when the nature of her little daydreams started changing _again_. Into something that left her feeling melty and warm inside. Images of the two of them lying in bed together, his warm arms around her, her head against his chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat; waking up in the morning to see him drinking coffee on her sofa and grading exams; staying up all night, her head on his lap, arguing about critical theory.

It had snuck up on her—the way her desire for him had grown into something deeper. She found herself wanting him in all the soft, warm, little ways that one person could want another. His breath on her neck; the roughness of his palm against her own; the softness in his eyes. Wanted him around in the quiet moments, in between breaths, when the touch of another can mean the difference between loneliness and home.

And that was big. That was a profound kind of need—deep and abiding. Karen was afraid that she couldn’t will it away by overloading her schedule or keeping herself busy.

 So yeah, she understood what Trish meant about how overwhelming the desire for closeness could be. How it could make your bones ache.

“You two are pathetic.” Jess, on the other hand, did not seem to have any great need for emotional intimacy. “Life is so much easier if you can learn to just have sex without all that other stuff involved. Just scratch an itch.”

“’Boning’? ‘Scratch an itch’?” Karen raised a brow at Jess. “You missed your calling as a Hallmark card writer.”

“Or a poet,” Trish piped up.

“She puts John Donne to shame.”

“Oh for sure.”

“Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,” Karen began to recite, posing with her arm raised like an actor in a Shakespearean drama. “But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breastplate, which you wear, that th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there: Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime. Tells me from you that it’s _boning_ time.”

Trish burst into a bout of uncontrollable giggles, while Jess held her hands up, unashamed. “What?! It does sound better that way!” She protested, grinning. “More people would read your weird, old, dead person poems if they talked about boning.”

“Sad thing is, I think you’re right,” Karen lamented, shaking her head.

“Of course I’m right,” Jess pretended to pop the collar of her black leather jacket. “Sex sells.”

“So I’ve been told,” Karen snorted, thinking about the conversation she’d had with Foggy at the faculty mixer all those months ago. That thought, of course, led her to remembering how unbelievably attractive Frank had looked that evening in his faded grey sweater (the one that was just the right size to hug the sturdy curve of his shoulders). And just like that, Karen was thinking about Frank again.

Trish noticed the expression on Karen’s face change, as subtly as it did, into something that looked an awful lot like longing.

“Pining for Frank again?” Trish placed a sympathetic hand on Karen’s wrist.

“Yeah,” Karen sighed. “I feel like my brain is a broken fucking record. I just keep replaying last night and wishing it had turned out differently, y’know? That I’d had the courage to tell him how I felt, or that he’d made a move. Something to let me know he’s interested.”

“Come on,” Jess rolled her eyes at Karen. “I’ve only been half-listening to this whole conversation, and even _I_ can tell that he’s interested in you. Don’t play stupid.”

“I’m not,” Karen crossed her arms defensively. “I’m just feeling a little insecure about this whole thing. I haven’t felt like this about someone in a long time, and it’s got me off my game.”

“I get that,” Trish nodded. “But you got take your mind off of it or you’ll drive yourself crazy. It’ll all work out.”

“Yeah, and even if it doesn’t, there’s always alcohol.” Jess raised her glass.

Strangely enough, that actually made Karen feel better. Not that there’d always be alcohol to lean on, but that she’d always have friends like Jess and Trish to turn to when things got rough.

 

             By the time Monday rolled around, Karen had done a lot of thinking about the Frank situation. Too much thinking, probably, as she had a tendency to dwell far too long on things she couldn’t do much about. In fact, she’d lost a great deal of sleep over the weekend, tossing and turning—sometimes lying awake and replaying that evening in the office with Frank, and other times twisting in the sheets with dreams of his hands and his lips and his voice. She’d woken up Monday morning exhausted, but all of the thinking had helped her to gain some clarity.

She’d decided that she wasn’t crazy—there had _definitely_ been a fair amount of sexual tension in that room Friday night, and not just from her end, either. She had seen the shudder of attraction in Frank’s eyes—the way they lingered on her a touch passed what was decent—the magnetic pull of his gaze along her flesh. So at least she knew that Frank was attracted to her, on some level. There was, of course, the looming possibility that the attraction was only physical—she didn’t know, she’d have to figure _that_ out eventually.

She had also decided, over the course of her weekend of agonizing, that she couldn’t hold it against him that he hadn’t _acted_ on said tension. His best friend had needed him, after all. Frank wouldn’t be the man she was stupidly in love with if he hadn’t immediately dropped everything to help a friend in need.

And while she hadn’t managed to make good on her promise to tell him that she was in love with him (what else was new?), she _did_ have more confidence that he had feelings for her, too. Whatever the nature of those feelings might be.

As she walked into the office, actually on time for once, Karen had to remind herself to breathe steadily. She had started to grow nervous, on her walk to work, about seeing Frank. Not because she was afraid it would be uncomfortable around him, but because she was a little bit apprehensive about how well he could read her. She was half-convinced, on some level, that he might take one look at her and know that she’d spent the last two nights tangled up in her sheets, sweaty and alone, dreaming about all the wonderful ways their Friday night _could_ have ended.

 

Frank, on his end, had also spent the past few days consumed with thoughts of their almost-encounter. Thoughts that mostly went something like, _“why the fuck am I friends with David?”_ and _“what would I have even said if he hadn’t interrupted?”_ After the initial—and bitter—disappointment that his moment had been so unceremoniously ruined by Lieberman, Frank started to realize that it actually might have been a good thing. Because he really _didn’t_ know what he had planned on saying to Karen. And he didn’t want to fuck it up. Not with her.

It may have taken Frank a while to realize that he was in love, but once the realization had hit, it hit _hard_. Frank was not a man who did things by half-measures; he was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. And falling in love with Karen felt like _it_ ; felt like the last great thing he would ever do.

He’d started to think, after Maria, that he’d never get to experience that feeling again. The way that love takes everything you think you are, all that you think defines you—your triumphs and your fears and your pain and your happiness—and shows you that you are _more_ than those things. You are part of something bigger than yourself; something huge and consuming and inexorable. That you were not meant to carry the burden of your own humanness—with all its beauty and suffering—alone. But rather, you are a shape perfect for holding.

He’d thought that feeling was out of reach.

But then Karen had come along, and _god,_ if she didn’t cut him to the core with all that nervous energy and those thoughtful eyes. Reminded him what it was like to lose yourself in dreams of someone else.

He’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of Karen over the weekend that even Maria had noticed, pulling him aside on Sunday evening to ask him what was going on. All he’d had to do was mention Karen’s name, and Maria got that knowing gleam in her eye. The one that used to drive him crazy.

“Ah, so you realized you’re in love with her, huh?”

Frank had groaned—had everyone known but him?

“Bring her around next weekend, okay? I want to meet her.” Maria had patted a comforting hand on his arm before being called away by Lisa, who was trying on a new baseball uniform.

With Maria onboard, it was serious. So he was determined not to fuck things up with a half-baked, impromptu confession. He was going to do things properly. But _how,_ exactly, he was going to go about it was the question of the moment.

And that’s exactly what he had been thinking about when Karen Page walked through the door on Monday morning (Frank had to double check his watch, because she was actually on time). He noticed immediately the buzz of anxious energy that seemed the follow her into the room. She was muttering something to herself under her breath, too quietly for Frank to hear.

“You, uh—” Frank swiveled around in his chair to track Karen’s movement across the office, “you talking to yourself there, Page?”

“Jesus Christ!” Karen jumped in surprise, clutching her chest. “Scared me to death. I didn’t see you behind your monitor.” She could barely hear her own voice over the wild thudding of her heart.

“You okay?” Frank’s brow furrowed as he took in Karen’s appearance. Though she was as impeccably-dressed as always, wearing a navy sweater dress that did marvelous things to her figure, there were deep purple bruises under her eyes. Like she hadn’t slept in a few nights. And there was that nervous little tilt to her mouth, like she was trying to stop herself from chewing her bottom lip, and only barely succeeding.

“Yeah,” Karen sighed, dropping her briefcase on the floor and falling onto the loveseat with a groan. “Just had a rough weekend. Couldn’t turn my brain off for even a few seconds, y’know?”

Frank hummed and understanding little noise. He _definitely_ knew.

“I woke up feeling like I hadn’t even slept. Like my head’s full of little buzzing creatures.” She propped her feet up on the coffee table and Frank had to suppress the belly laugh that threatened to burst out.

“Is that why, uh—” Frank gesture toward Karen’s feet, “Why you’re wearing two different shoes there?”

“I—” Karen looked down at her feet in shock, her brows knitting together in confusion, as though seeing them for the first time. “God damnit!” She owned two pairs of suede ankle boots, absolutely identical, save for the fact that one pair was brown while the other was black. In her rush to leave that morning—her mind preoccupied with other, Frank-shaped thoughts—she’d grabbed one of both.

“I think it’s quite the look,” Frank smirked as Karen slumped further down on the loveseat, throwing an arm over her face. “You might even start a fad, Page.”

“Jesus Christ,” she groaned. “Can we pretend, just for a few seconds, that I’m a functioning human being?”

“It’ll be hard, but we can try.” Frank bit his thumb to keep the stupid grin from overtaking his face. “Want some coffee?” He’d poured a cup for himself on the way in, stopping by the faculty break room to get his morning fix. But Karen looked like she could use it more than he did at the moment.

“Yes, please.” Her voice was muffled by the arm she was still hiding under.

Frank grabbed his untouched mug of coffee and walked it over to the loveseat. He kneeled down next to Karen, who refused to uncover her face, and instead reached out blindly for the mug with her free arm, almost smacking Frank upside the head in the process.

“Okay,” he dodged another attempt for the coffee, chuckling. “I think you’re going to have to come out of hiding if you want your caffeine fix, sweetheart.”

“But I’m obviously not capable of existing in the real world today.” Despite her protestation, Karen let her arm drop with a sigh, reaching for the mug with both hands. Her fingers lingered a little longer than strictly necessary on Frank’s own, and she had to suppress a shiver at the touch. _God dammit_ , but the smallest touch from him got a reaction out of her.

Frank watched her take her first sip, noting the initial grimace (Frank took his coffee black, while Karen was a sugar fiend), which eventually faded into a hum of satisfaction. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, they had lost their bitingly-nervous edge.

“World looks better after some coffee, huh?” Frank asked, smiling softly. Karen may have been having a rough morning, but his was going great—it always did, the second she walked into the room.

“Mmhmm,” Karen nodded, watching Frank over the rim of the mug. They were awfully close, what with him squatting down next to her lap, his hand steadying himself on the couch cushion mere inches away from her thigh. It reminded her of their position last Friday night, which set off a series of minor explosions in her chest. “Even if it tastes like motor oil the way you make it.” Karen joked, trying to cover up the prickle of awareness that was beginning the crawl its way up her spine.

“You’ve tasted motor oil before?” Frank shifted his hand on the couch, and the tip of his thumb lightly brushed her thigh, right where the hem of her dress ended. Karen had to exert an inhuman amount of self-control to keep from squirming.

“Haven’t you?” She teased, keeping her voice casual.

“You know, that explains so much about you, Page.” Frank couldn’t hide the blatant affection on his face, and Karen felt her pulse spike.

She was contemplating sliding one of her hands from her mug to rest over his own, when a loud beeping emanated from Frank’s computer.

He frowned, looking over his shoulder. It was the alert he’d set to go off every time he received an email marked “Urgent” from the university admin. In the 7 years he’d been working as a professor, it had only gone off twice: once when the president of the college passed away unexpectedly, and once when an armed robber fleeing from the cops decided to hide out in the library.

“That’s weird,” he muttered under his breath, pushing himself up to check his email. Karen’s eyes followed lazily as he rounded his desk to lean over the monitor. The blue light of the screen lit his face, and she watched with growing interest while his expression morphed from confusion to shock to something that looked an awful lot like glee.

“Holy shit, Kare,” his voice was excited. “You gotta read this.” He gestured toward her in a ‘come here’ motion, never taking his eyes off the screen. She placed her mug on the coffee table and made her way over, planting a hand on his desk to lean over his shoulder.

It was silent for a moment, as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Then:

“Oh fuck.” It was a curse, but it was spoken with a kind of joy that Karen should have probably felt guilty about.

“The Great Dr. Danny Rand, revealed as a fraud. Jesus,” Frank shook his head, and Karen had to bring a hand up to her mouth to keep the giddy laughter from spilling out.

_It has recently come to the administration’s attention that Dr. Daniel Rand, of the School of Media Journalism, has been accused of falsifying data._

            Four years ago, Danny had gained some measure of fame for a study he’d published about the dissemination of underground, revolutionary materials in North Korea, and their effect on stirring up resistance among rural citizens. The crux of his research had rested on a riveting account of espionage and revolution, as told by a former citizen of the DPRK, who purported to be directly involved in the Kim administration.

            A former citizen who was now coming forward as a fraud, the email read. He was, apparently, not even Korean, but rather a Chinese student Danny had met during a research trip to Hong Kong. He had completely fabricated the story, with Danny’s help, in exchange for assistance in attaining a green card to the U.S.

            _In light of this new information, Dr. Daniel Rand has chosen to tender his resignation, and will no longer be affiliated with the work being conducted at this university._

“Is it wrong for me to celebrate right now?” Karen spoke around her fingers, which were still pressed to her mouth.

“I think the occasion calls for it.” Frank smiled over his shoulder at Karen, who was looking shell-shocked in the best way.

“I just feel so _vindicated_ ,” she pumped her fist in the air for emphasis. “Maybe the universe _is_ just, after all.”

“And now you can get your research project back.” Frank straightened so that he was no longer leaning over the desk, and turned to face Karen, who was bouncing up and down on the toes of her feet.

“Oh my God,” she ran a hand through her hair. “I hadn’t even thought about that. I was just imagining the media firestorm he’s gonna come under when this thing blows up.”

“They’re going to crucify him. Especially because it’s a little racist to try to pass off a Chinese man as Korean.”

“Ooh, I didn’t think about that either,” Karen rubbed her hands together in delight. “This is going to be amazing.”

Suddenly, Karen’s phone began dinging manically, several texts coming in all at once. She jogged over to her briefcase to see what was going on.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “Foggy and Trish and some of my other grad students are all texting me congratulations.” She thumbed through her messages as they kept filtering in. “It feels like Christmas morning.”

“I didn’t know Santa did revenge. Never got it in _my_ stocking.” Frank shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Karen grin at her phone. She really _did_ look like a child on Christmas.

“Probably because you were never a good little boy,” Karen quickly typed back a response to Foggy.

“I was good enough.”

“ _Good enough_ doesn’t get your enemies destroyed.”

“Clearly.”

Karen snorted, firing off several texts in a row.

“Oh,” she looked up from her phone as she received another text. “Foggy just suggested we go to Josie’s tonight to celebrate. Wanna come?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 “Even if it is technically in poor taste to drink to the destroyed career of a colleague?” Karen gave a lopsided tilt of the lips.

“I’ve done worse,” Frank lifted a shoulder in a half shrug.

“Which is exactly why Santa never gave you revenge for Christmas,” Karen pointed a finger. “It’s all coming together, Castle.”

Frank was about to speak when the alarm on Karen’s phone went off, alerting her to leave for class.

“Oh, shit,” she glanced down at her phone. “I gotta go. But we’re meeting at Josie’s at 8, okay?” She grabbed her briefcase and threw it over her shoulder. As she made to rush out the door, she impulsively reached out to kiss Frank on the cheek. She couldn’t say exactly why, but it felt right. “I’ll text you later,” she squeezed his arm gently before breezing out of the office, leaving him standing there staring after her like a lovesick fool.

 

For 8 o’clock on a Monday night, Josie’s was uncommonly packed. Aside from the usual suspects who showed up to start drinking at 4pm on the dot, the bar was playing host to what looked like a roller derby team still decked out in their uniforms, a group of frat guys wearing Chinos and comfort colors, and an assortment of strange characters who seemed to be intent on drinking alone. Karen, Frank, and Trish (who was meeting Foggy for the first time), had barely been able to snag a pool table while Foggy bought the first round of celebratory drinks. They’d toasted to the untimely, but not unappreciated, demise of Danny Rand, before Trish suggested a game of pool (which Foggy jumped to take her up on). Frank and Karen had exchanged a look at that—he’d seemed just a little too eager.

It had only taken ten minutes for Trish’s competitive side to rear its head, which had caught everyone but Karen by surprise. Trish was a woman who did not like to lose. Unfortunately for her, Foggy wasn’t too keen on being defeated himself, and their game had quickly devolved into chaos—but enjoyable chaos.

“Oh my God,” Foggy leaned down to speak into Karen’s ear, chalking up the pool stick in his hands. “How have you not introduced me to Trish before tonight?” He watched in avid fascination as the woman in question bent over the pool table to line up her shot, giving him a perfect view of her assets.

“Uh, because the opportunity just didn’t pop up?” Karen shrugged, taking a sip of her beer. She was currently leaned-up against a tall pub table pressed into the back corner of the bar, where she had been watching Trish and Foggy go at it like professional players, trick shots and all. “You’re not going to be weird about this, are you?” She narrowed her eyes at Foggy in suspicion. The poor guy had a tendency to get really awkward around her attractive, female friends. The stuttery, bad-joke, no hand-eye coordination kind of awkward. It was really quite tragic.

“What, me?” Foggy pressed an offended hand to his chest. “Never been awkward a day in my life.”

“Uh-huh,” Karen darted her eyes down at Foggy’s pants. “Your fly’s undone.”

“Oh shit.” He looked down in surprise, turning around the subtly zip up. “Do you think Trish saw that?”

“Saw what?” Trish suddenly appeared at Karen’s side.

“Uh, how great that last shot you made was,” Foggy attempted to cover up, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Um, of course I saw the shot, Foggy.” Trish darted her eyes to Karen, brow furrowed in confusion. “I was the one that made it.”

“Oh yeah. Of course.” Foggy fidgeted with his pool stick. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that it was a really good shot. So,” he jerkily reached out to pat Trish on the arm, “good job.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah, just, uh…” Foggy began backing away from the two women, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m gonna go back to the pool table. Plan my next move.”

Trish waited a beat before tilting her head at Karen with a frown.

“Is he okay?” She darted her eyes in Foggy’s direction.

“Right now, or in general?” Karen chuckled, shaking her head.

“You have some weird friends,” Trish sighed, before turning to follow Foggy and finish off their game.

Karen was only alone for a moment before Frank appeared at her elbow, carrying another round of beers for the group.

“I’m telling you, that bar tender always takes way longer getting the drinks for me than he does with you.” He placed the bottles on the table with a clang, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans.

“Well that’s because I actually smile at him. Didn’t anyone ever tell you grimacing gets you nowhere,” Karen gestured at Frank’s face, which was indeed set in a scowl. “Flies and honey and all that?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s less about the smiling and more about you being a good-looking woman,” Frank grumbled, grabbing one of the beers and taking a swig. Karen blushed at the compliment, and felt the warm buzz of it all the way down to her toes.

“I’m pretty sure Craig’s gay, Frank. _You’d_ be more his taste,” she leaned forward, slipping her chin into the palm of her hand.

“Clearly not, or else it wouldn’t have taken 15 minutes to get four beers.” Frank also leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“Hmm, maybe Craig doesn’t go for your whole ‘rugged, muscular intellectual with a penchant for sweaters’ look,” Karen pursed her lips in thought.

“Is that what I am?” Frank raised a brow. “A ‘rugged, muscular intellectual’?”

Karen felt a blush working its way across her face.

“You forgot the sweaters. It’s all about the sweaters.”

“Of course,” Frank nodded sagely, looking down at the grey cable knit he was wearing (Karen’s favorite, though he had no way of knowing that). There was a loud groan from the direction of the pool table, and he glanced over his shoulder at Trish and Foggy, who were arguing over how far she was allowed to lean over to make a shot before it became a foul. “So Foggy hasn’t run her off yet?”

“Nope, but he’s working on it,” Karen scrunched her nose. “At this rate, she’s going to be heading for the hills in no time at all. Poor guy—he just can’t function around a pretty woman.”

“It’s a miracle he’s been able to keep cool around _you_ for so long.”

Karen bit her lip. It was the second time in the span of two minutes that Frank had called her beautiful—her heart stuttered in her chest.

“You should have seen him the first time he met me. Spilled sangria down my dress at a faculty mixer,” Karen smiled at the memory. “Then, when he tried to get some club soda to help wash it out, he spilled _that_ down himself. I think the only reason he didn’t spontaneously combust in embarrassment was because Matt was there. He has a way of keeping Foggy from going too crazy.”

“Hmm,” Frank scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how to broach the next topic. “Speaking of Matt—haven’t heard you mention him in a while. Things still rough between you two?”

Karen had never gotten around the telling Frank about the nature of her confrontation with Matt in the coffee shop—she had been so upset about the whole thing, she hadn’t really thought to mention what the fight was about in the first place. All he’d managed to gather from her was “Matt is an asshole who thinks he has some kind of say in my life, but he _doesn’t_ ” and “God, he’s just a self-righteous prick.” And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little curious about what had happened between the two of them.

“Uh, yeah.” Karen’s expression took on a strained quality. “Still rough.” She looked down, picking up a napkin and twisting it between her fingers. “I’ve mostly just been avoiding him. Might be time for me to write the whole thing off as over, y’know?” She dropped the napkin and moved on to fidgeting with her beer bottle, peeling the label off with her thumbnail. “I figure if he really cared about our friendship, he’d have found some way to apologize by now. And I think I’m getting to a place where I can finally say ‘no’ to half-assed friends. Just cut ‘em off.”

Frank nodded, aiming for a sympathetic look, which he didn’t quite pull off. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t happy with that particular turn of events—though they’d only met once, Matt had given him a bad feeling.

“You never said what happened between the two of you.” Frank’s eyes were glued to Karen’s restless fingers. “Don’t know if it’s something you want to talk about or not.”

Karen stopped her fidgeting, looking at Frank intently—thoughtfully. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him that their fight had mostly revolved around _him_ ; she didn’t want him feeling guilty for causing the rift between her and Matt. But on the other hand, there was really no point in keeping it a secret—what was done was done. And, in the end, the falling out had really been more about Matt’s patronizing self-righteousness than about Frank.

“He just—,” Karen stopped, trying to think of how to phrase what she wanted to say. “He has this way of trying to get involved in my life and kind of tell me what to do that’s absolutely infuriating. He’s always making suggestions and giving me advice about things he has no right to talk about. Overstepping his bounds.”

“Ah,” Frank nodded. “It’s a fool’s mistake, trying to tell _you_ what to do.”

“Damn right.” Karen lifted her beer in a mock toast.

“So, uh, what was it that he said that set you off?”

“Actually,” Karen’s lips quirked slightly, “we were arguing about you.”

“Me?” Frank jolted in surprise, frowning.

“Yeah,” Karen leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “He was trying to tell me all this bullshit—that you weren’t someone I should be associated with. That you would ruin my reputation. Just a load of garbage. I got upset—asked him what gave him the right to tell me who I should and shouldn’t be associating with. Went downhill from there.”

“So you—” Frank paused, brow furrowed. “You stopped being friends with him because of me?” That idea didn’t sit well with him.

“No, no.” Karen reached out to place a hand on his arm, rubbing her thumb against the outside of his wrist. “The conversation about you was just a symptom of the larger problem, right? I stopped being friends with him because he doesn’t treat me well. He acts like I’m some little girl he needs to protect and look out for—it’s patronizing.” Karen squeezed Frank’s arm, forcing him to look at her. “I’m trying to get better at cutting toxic people out of my life. People who make me feel small. Matt was one of those people.”

Frank nodded, staring at Karen with a contemplative look, as though he were weighing up some odds in his head, to which she wasn’t privy.

“You know,” he looked away, staring at his hands on the table. “Matt was probably right. About you and me.”

It was Karen’s turn to react in surprise. “What?”

“He was right,” Frank looked up again, something dark and heated in his eyes. “You’re too good for me.” Karen opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Come one, Kare. You’re brilliant and funny and you have this way of setting people at ease. You got a good heart. An open heart. And that’s really rare. You don’t meet people like that every day, and that’s just the goddamn truth. I’m not really sure anyone is good enough for you.”

“I don’t—” Karen started to speak, something like anger crumpling her face.

“No, hey—” Frank reached out and laid a warm hand on Karen’s arm. “Hey. All I’m saying is that I know who I am. And I know what my reputation is, okay? I’m not an idiot. You’re not gonna get invited to rub any elbows by associating with me.”

Karen opened her mouth, still trying to get a word in.

“I’m not done, Kare.” Frank grinned, amused at her adamant attempts to argue the point. “Jesus, did your momma never teach you not to interrupt?” Karen sputtered, before closing her mouth. “Here’s the thing, Page—the thing Matt doesn’t know, right? Is that there’s nothing he, or anybody else, can do or say to make me disappear.”

Karen felt her rigid shoulders go lax. Frank’s hand, still on her arm, felt hot.

“At this point, uh—,” he shifted uneasily, “I’m not sure I could leave you alone if I tried. I think you’re stuck with me.”

Karen’s chest suddenly felt over-full, flooded with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Something with the distinct flavor of relief, mixed with joy, and a whole tidal wave of affection. Frank was looking at her in this electric kind of way—fierce and burning. His eyes were tight in anticipation, waiting for Karen to respond.

“I—”

“Oh, more beer!” Foggy’s sweaty body collided suddenly into the table, jostling the drinks. Frank stuck out a hand to steady the wobbling bottles. “I need to refuel after that game. Another victory for Clan Nelson.” He grabbed a beer and took a long gulp, seemingly unaware of the thick cord of expectation that hung in the air between Karen and Frank.

“I’m not convinced that last shot was legal,” Trish grumbled, appearing at Foggy’s side, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She squeezed in next to him, also missing the way that Frank and Karen had been staring at each other, unblinking.

“Is that bitterness I hear in your voice, Walker?” Foggy slammed his bottle on the table, which jolted Karen from her state. Jumping, she turned to look at Foggy, who was pointing at Trish with narrowed eyes. “Let’s go another round and see who’s cheating, huh?”

“Maybe Frank and Karen want a turn, Nelson.” Trish grabbed her own beer, sparing a glance at Karen for the first time since joining the table. She immediately noticed the look on her friend’s face—overwhelmed and a little bit dazed. Darting her eyes in Frank’s direction, she saw him wearing a similar look. Clearly they’d walked into the middle of something. “Or not…”

“Uh,” Karen cleared her throat, beginning to feel a little suffocated by the atmosphere inside the bar, like the she couldn’t breathe.  Air—she needed air. “Actually, I think I’m gonna step outside for a bit, I—”

She didn’t finish her sentence, grabbing her coat and heading for the back door of the bar. Trish and Foggy both stared after her in confusion.

“I’m gonna go make sure she’s good,” Frank grumbled, grabbing his own coat and following closely behind.

Trish and Foggy exchanged a glance as their two friends disappeared out into the night.

“What was that?” Foggy looked genuinely puzled, bless his heart.

“That, my new friend, is inevitability.” Trish grinned.

 

The cool night air whipped around Karen’s face as she burst out the back door of Josie’s. It helped to clear some of the heavy fog that had settled in her mind. Her heart was in her throat—thundering.

“Karen, what—” Frank didn’t have time to get the rest of the question out. He didn’t even have time to close the door behind him. Before he realized what was happening, Karen had launched herself at him, arms around his neck. And then she was kissing him.

The kiss was tentative—nervous. Frank stood frozen in surprise, not moving, not reacting. His brain hadn’t quite caught up to what was happening to his body. Karen felt her heart sink, and began to pull away.

“I’m sorry, I—” She started to apologize. Clearly she’d misread the situation. Clearly he didn’t want this. _What a royal fuck-up_. But she didn’t get the chance to finish her thought.

It was Frank’s turn to take Karen by surprise, reaching out to slip a hand behind her head and yank her forward, silencing the rest of her apology as his mouth found her own.

And _this_ kiss—this kiss was different. It wasn’t gentle, but with Frank Castle, Karen didn’t expect it to be. There was no breathless anticipation and uncertain brushes of the lips with him. No hesitant little tastes. Rather, he kissed like he was trying to consume her—with a single-minded dedication that made her feel weak. Brutal and hard—teeth nipping and lips devouring. Karen felt that animal part of herself clawing to the surface, as she buried her hands in his hair and tugged him roughly closer—for more.

Frank made a deep, low noise, and snaked an arm around her waist, holding her tight. His other hand tangled in her hair—all that golden, silky hair. He flexed the arm at her waist, and Karen jerked against him in response. Frank let out a moan at the sensation, and Karen shivered as she became acutely every point their bodies touched from chest to thigh.

Her breasts were crushed deliciously against the front of his coat, and the hard feel of him against her had her head going fuzzy. But it was a pleasant kind of static that cleared her mind of everything but _Frank_ , leaving her free to focus on the slide of his tongue against her own, wet and hot, and the grasping of his fingers above the curve of her ass. A keening noise left her throat, and his hips bucked forward—brushing that spot that sent a sharp shoot of arousal up her spine.

“Karen. Jesus,” Frank whispered against her lips quietly, before pulling back to look at her in the streetlight. Her eyes were shining and feverish under heavy lids, and her lips parted and glistening from his kiss. She looked like a woman coming undone. Frank opened his mouth to speak again—he wanted to make her understand this was important to him; that kissing her felt like tasting his future; that this was _everything_ —but he didn’t know how. So instead, he settled for making a frustrated, impatient noise before lowering his head again, trying to put everything he couldn’t say behind his kiss.

Slowly, his tongue swiped against her full bottom lip, leisurely setting the pace. He felt her responsive sigh as she sunk into him again. He wanted to memorize that feeling—of having her melt. She scratched at his scalp, and he responded by nibbling at her lip, teeth sharp and demanding. She gasped gently, and suddenly his tongue was brushing against hers again with exquisite slowness. More gentle this time—exploring.

A soft sound escaped Karen’s throat as her hands fell from his hair, grappling at his back to grab full swathes of his coat in an attempt to get even closer. Frank hadn’t even realized she’d been walking him backwards until his back collided with the wall of Josie’s and he let out a surprised laugh, breaking the kiss.

“Careful, Karen,” Frank’s face was split into a grin, and he pulled her forward to nestle between his parted legs, head thrown back against the wall. “Don’t break me.”

“Don’t think I could if I tried,” Karen was smiling too. It was a different smile than he’d seen her wear before. It was a smile that had an entire universe of private longing inside of it.

“God,” Frank shook his head. “Wanted to kiss you for so long. Too long.” He dipped his head again, this time landing on her neck, opening his mouth to suck at her flesh.

“Fuck,” Karen bit out, tilting her head to give him more access and breathing out hot into the cool night air.

“Say that again,” Frank whispered, before biting at the junction between her neck and her shoulder.

“Ah,” she let out a half-yelp, half-groan at the feeling of his teeth digging into her flesh, “Fuck, Frank.” Her voice sounded breathy in her own ears.

His hands were trailing up and down her sides, brushing the outsides of her breasts before returning to settle on her hips, then making the trail again. The sensation was divine, and she felt her hips roll forward into his own, causing him to grunt out a deep sound.

 This was insane, a small part of her brain was thinking. Insane. Just moments ago they had been watching Foggy and Trish play pool, and now she had Frank pressed against the back wall of Josie’s, moaning in her ear and writhing against her.

“Frank,” she said his name again, like a plea, bringing her hands up to tangle in his short hair. “Frank, hold on, I—”

Frank immediately pulled back, the lust in his eyes instantly replaced with concern. Had he done something wrong? Had he misread the signs? No—that couldn’t be it. Karen wouldn’t have been kissing him so goddamn thoroughly if she didn’t want this too.

“No, no, come back,” Karen put her hands behind Frank’s neck, pulling him forward to rest his forehead against her own. “I just—” Karen broke off.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him. She _really_ wanted to tell him that she loved him. But it didn’t feel like the right time—pressed against the back wall of Josie’s, surrounded by cigarette butts and crushed beer cans. So instead, she said what she could.

“I can’t be casual with you, Frank. I can’t do this if this is all it is. I’m not—I’m not walking away from this.” It wasn’t the most eloquent thing to say, but she hoped he understood. He _needed_ to understand.

Frank shook his head, his nose bumping against Karen’s as he did.

“Karen.” He said her name with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “How can you not know?”

“Know what?”

“Nothing with you has ever been casual for me.” This time, when Frank pulled away, Karen let him. She wanted to see his eyes. “You have me.” His stare was single-minded and fervent. “You _have_ me.”

All of the air seemed to leave Karen’s lungs in a single _whoosh_. The world, she was sure, began to tilt on its axis. Or, at least, _her_ world did.

It wasn’t an “I love you,” but it somehow felt greater than that. More tangible, like something she could hold if she were to just reach out. It was all there—everything—in the gentle way his eyes anchored to her own; in the barely-perceptible trembling of his hands; in the corner of his lips, which couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted to smile or not. He was watching her like there was nothing else in the world more worthy of his attention. Like she was a new color he was seeing for the first time.

“Frank.” His name seemed to float, suspended, in the cold air between them. It was a caress; a benediction; a poem. He’d never heard his name spoken with so much need behind it.

And he was kissing her again. Lightly, gently. Just to feel her.

“I—,” She pulled away, taking a shuddering breath. “I want you to take me home, Frank.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

They didn’t even bother with excuses for Trish and Foggy. Didn’t have the patience for it. Instead, they ran back inside to grab Karen’s purse, threw a half-hearted “see you later” over their shoulders, and were gone. There was no time for waiting—no time for stalling. They’d let this _thing_ burn between them for too long to get caught up in pleasantries.

The car ride to Karen’s apartment was blissfully short. Frank drove fast—too fast, really—his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. (Later, he would look back on that moment and thank god that he hadn’t been pulled over for how egregiously he was speeding). Karen, for her part, could not sit still in her seat. The anticipation had her squirming like a child, until Frank had to shoot her a dark glance, telling her to sit still. He was distracted enough without her writhing about in the passenger seat.

Karen had never taken the steps up to her place so quickly—two at a time. In fact, the entire trip from the car to the apartment was a blur. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind them that time seemed to slow to its normal speed.

Karen had half-expected Frank to pin her to the door as soon as it shut, picking up where they’d left off in the alley way. She’d expected frenzy and passion and desperation.

But there was no frenzy. There was no reckless claiming.

Instead, Frank stepped slowly into Karen’s apartment, looking around at all the familiar little pieces of her scattered about. And then he just _stood_ —in the middle of Karen’s living room—heart pounding.

Standing there, among all of Karen’s possessions—her eclectic collection of books and ceramic knick-knacks—it hit Frank all at once. The enormity of the moment. Of what they were going to do.

Suddenly, against all common sense and rationality, he felt a little shy. _No,_ he thought _, not shy._ It was something else—the feeling you get when you’re standing on the edge of a balcony, high in the air, thinking about how easy it would be to just lean forward and fall.

This was important. This was _Karen_.

Frank ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the roaring feeling in his chest.

Karen, who was still standing by the door, barely past the threshold, was watching him in confusion. Waiting for him to _do_ something. It seemed a strange shift in tone, she thought, compared to the heat and want of the alleyway. But clearly Frank needed some time—he was looking a little bit lost. And she was going to give him all the time he needed.

“I’ve never been in your bedroom.” His voice, though quiet, felt huge in her cozy little space.

“It’s the door to your left.” Karen pointed, and Frank turned to look. It was open just a crack, and he could see that she’d left a lamp on inside, as it illuminated a patch of carpet with a yellow glow.

He walked forward unhurriedly, almost cautiously, and pushed the door open fully, stepping inside. Karen waited a beat before following him.

Karen’s room, Frank thought, was perfect; just like he’d imagined. A large bed covered in a pale blue comforter; an entire wall of books (the fantasy branch of her personal collection); a vintage, velvet chair pushed in the corner, next to the window, which he assumed was her reading nook; a thousand assorted tchotchkes she’d picked up from her travels abroad.

Frank walked forward, running his fingers along the spines of her book collection, before turning and picking up the abacus on her night stand.

He was fidgeting, Karen thought with a grin. Like he was nervous—like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

It was strange, seeing him this way. She was used to a confident, smug, overbearing Frank. _That_ she could deal with.

But an uncertain Frank was something else altogether.

She bit her lip, leaning against the door frame as he made his way over to her little desk, plucking at the abandoned knitting she’d left next to her laptop. He absent-mindedly shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over her desk chair.

Karen wanted to give him time—sure—but she was growing a little impatient. She wanted his hands on her, and sooner rather than later. So she’d just have to help him along.

While his back was still turned to hers, fiddling with the Rubix cube on her desk, Karen brought her hands up to the zipper of her dress. Eyes glued to Frank’s broad back, she slowly dragged it down until the dress fell off her frame and silently onto the floor.

Underneath, she wore nothing but a diaphanous slip—a translucent scrap of thin cotton; she was practically naked. With a shiver, she fought the urge to cover herself. She felt so exposed. But, she supposed, that was the whole point—that was what she _wanted_ —to be utterly exposed before Frank.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she forced her hands down to her sides, balling them in fists to keep from fidgeting nervously, then spoke.

“Frank?”

“Hmmm?” He responded, still facing away from her.

“Frank,” this time it wasn’t a question—it was a demand. Karen saw his back stiffen almost imperceptibly at the tone of her voice. A new kind of awareness flooding his body—had his pulse spiking.

He turned around to face her, his questioning look melting away to something else entirely when he saw her state of undress. She felt his eyes burning hot as they trailed up and down her body, stopping to take in her pink nipples, puckered and straining against the fabric. In the moonlight that filtered through the window, she looked like a goddamn angel.

Frank’s devoured her, but he didn’t take a solitary step forward, still standing the entire length of the room away. He’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life. Dangerously beautiful—like a man could lose his mind just looking at her standing there, wanting. His body felt rooted to the spot, his gaze licking up and down her curves in unhidden appreciation. But he was nervous—he was actually fucking _nervous_. This thing between them felt huge—felt inevitable—and it was a little scary.

Karen’s brow creased in a frown.

“Frank. A girl’s going to start to feel a little self-conscious if you don’t come over here and touch her.” Karen tried for playful, but her voice was a touch too strained. Pulled tight with the tension of arousal (and just a touch of self-doubt). It was that anxious hitch that set Frank moving toward her.

“Goddamn.” He was across the room in seconds, his hands reaching for Karen’s face. If she were less focused on that thundering look in his eyes, she might have noticed the way his fingers were trembling softly.

“That’s better,” she mumbled quietly, leaning her cheek into the warmth of his palm.

“You are…” He broke off, letting his eyes trail down her body again, brushing her cheeks back and forth with his thumbs. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” Frank licked his lips. “Got me feeling like a teenaged boy over here.” He managed something akin to a chuckle.

“From where I’m standing, you don’t look like a teenaged boy,” Karen whispered, bringing her hands up to grab onto the lapels of the jacket he was still wearing. “You look like a man who wants to fuck me.”

“Shit, Kare.” Frank made a strangled noise. “You can’t say stuff like that if you want me to go slow with you.”

“Sorry,” Karen smiled, looking not at all apologetic.

Leisurely, Frank’s hands began to drift down from her cheeks, moving to ghost gently down her neck, his fingers leaving little trails of heat in their wake. He fiddled with the neckline of her shift for a moment before letting his hands drift down further.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so beautiful,” he spoke breathily, moving to cup her breasts in his large hands. She inhaled sharply at the feel of his palms pressed against her nipples, the sensation of his rough skin through thin fabric. “Like a wet dream,” he mumbled, and Karen would have teased him for the comparison, but suddenly his fingers were brushing over her nipples intently, and she moaned obscenely, feeling herself grow wet at the touch. How had she never realized how sensitive her nipples were?

“You like that.” There was a smile in Frank’s voice, and he stepped forward slightly so that his front barely grazed Karen’s, her senses sharpening at every point his body made contact with her own. “That’s good to know.”

He moved his left hand behind her back, pulling her body fully against his own, and with his right hand he began to gently roll and pinch her nipple between his fingers.

“Ah—Frank,” his name came out as a gasp from Karen’s lips, and her back arched involuntarily, pressing her breasts up toward him as an offering.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He lowered his head to her neck, opening his mouth to latch onto a spot near her collar bone, and she lost all her words. His mouth was so hot and wet against her skin, teeth brushing and nibbling at her in harmony with the movement of his fingers. Bite—tug—lick—roll. It was like some choreographed dance he was leading her body in.

As she pressed herself more firmly against Frank’s solid frame, his left hand wandered down the small of Karen’s back to cup her ass. His fingers trailed the cleft of her cheeks, dipping in to separate them slightly through the cotton of her panties, and she let out a choked moan.

“Mmm, that sound is perfect,” Frank mumbled against her neck. “Make that sound again,” he nipped sharply at a spot under her ear, just as he tweaked her nipple and let his left hand dip between her cheeks, dangerously close to her near-soaking core.

“Ah!” Karen moaned again, her hips jolting forward in search of some kind of relief. Frank grunted as her bucking hips found his own. He pulled her forward by her ass so that both of her legs straddled one of his—his muscular thigh nestled between them. He ground himself against her for a moment—sweet friction rubbing her just where she needed it.

Frank was already impossibly hard and straining against his jeans, and neither he nor Karen were technically undressed yet.

“Fuck—need to slow down,” Frank whispered against the skin on Karen’s neck, breath hot and wet, before taking a step back from her and untangling their legs. She whimpered at the loss of contact and Frank grinned, self-satisfied. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but I think I’m wearing too much,” he spoke with a grin, pulling off his sweater and moving to unbutton the shirt he wore underneath.

“No—let me,” Karen stepped forward, stilling his hands as they moved from button to button. Slowly, letting her fingers brush lightly against Frank’s overheated skin, Karen parted his shirt and revealed his chest. He was all sharp lines and bunched muscle beneath, as she knew he would be. The hard planes of his chest were delectable, covered in such warm, tanned skin. She couldn’t help but lick her lips involuntarily when the shirt fell to the ground, and she caught her first glimpse of the deep V of muscle leading into his jeans. How badly she wanted to trace that V with her tongue and follow it to its conclusion.

Frank, who had watched her appraising glance, and the trail of her pink tongue swiping along her bottom lip, groaned quietly. “You’re killing me, Karen.”

She glanced up and him with a wicked grin.

“This is 2018, Castle; the men don’t get to have all the fun,” she tutted, before lowering her head and attaching her lips to the long column of Frank’s throat, maintaining eye contact as best she could. At the shaky noise he made, she continued dragging her lips from his throat to his chest, letting her hands explore his muscular back all the while. His breath shuddered as she nibbled and licked a trail down his sternum. She pulled away from his skin slightly, and paused with uncertainty, before lowering her lips to lave the flat of her tongue against his right nipple.

“Karen,” Frank gasped, jerking in surprise. But her name quickly dissolved into a deep, satisfied noise.

“Mmm,” she mumbled in reply, circling his nipple again and again, before dropping a kiss onto his left one. “Seems you like having you nipples played with too,” she grinned up at him.

“We’ve always had a lot in common, huh?” Frank laughed, a little breathless.

“Hmm,” she agreed, lowering her lips to his chest once again. Slowly, she sunk down to her knees, dragging her nails down his back as she did so. He threw his head back and muttered “Jesus” as she settled between his spread legs.

Karen nuzzled her nose at the line of wiry hair trailing from his belly button into his jeans, sighing contentedly. With her hands scratching gently at the dip of his lower back, she licked along the trail of hair. It was rough, but pleasurable on her tongue. From her position, she could see Frank’s cock twitch in his pants as she repeated the motion.

“Karen, you have to get off your knees if you want to make it to the bed,” Frank’s voice was shaky and full of arousal as he spoke above her. She tilted her head back to make eye contact with him as she swiped her tongue across his happy trail again, defiant.

“Alright,” he huffed, before reaching down and hauling her up by her shoulders until they were face-to-face again. “That’s enough teasing from you.”

“You don’t like my teasing?” Karen asked with a smirk.

“Oh no,” Frank shook his head, trailing his hands from her shoulders to her hands, grabbing them with rough palms. “Like your teasing too much—that’s the problem.”

With her hands in his, Frank started slowly walking himself backwards, dragging Karen along with him, until he was able to collapse back into the red, velvet chair in the corner. He yanked her forward until she was sitting, straddling his lap.

Gazing up at her, eyes drinking in her every feature as though he were memorizing them, Frank spoke. “I’ve waited so fucking long for you, Kare. So let me take this slowly. I need to take this slowly.”

Her eyes softened tenderly, and she nodded. Cupping Frank’s chin in both hands, she tilted his head up a notch, bringing her forehead down to bump gently against his own. “Whatever you need. I’ve waited a long time for you, too. Just _touch_ me.” Karen rolled her hips forward, and Frank felt his vision go white.

“That’s not taking it slow, Kare.” The words came out breathy and wrecked.

“Fine, fine.” Karen shifted her hips so they weren’t pressed to roughly against his lap. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hmm,” Frank pulled away from her grasp and dragged his gaze up and down her body contemplatively. He lifted his hands and tugged at the straps holding her shift in place. In one swift motion, it fell to pool in her lap, leaving her utterly exposed.  “That’s a very dangerous thing to promise a man.”

“I like to live dangerously,” Karen whispered, bringing her lips to his in a devouring kiss. It was sloppy and wet—teeth clashing and tongues sliding over one another—and it was perfect. Frank’s hands rose to cup her breasts, and she found her hips sliding back forward, grinding along his in time with the swipe of his thumbs over her pebbled nipples.

The room was silent save for the sounds of their passion—heavy breathing and choked moans, the gasp of each other’s names.  Karen’s hands drifted down Frank’s toned chest, stopping to tug lightly on his dark chest hair before grabbing ahold of his belt and pulling sharply up. His hips jerked towards her own in response, hitting the bundle of nerves between her lower lips and sending her back arching, wrenching a cry from her lips.

“I love the noises you make,” Frank ground out, voice deep and rumbly. Karen noticed that he spoke in the gruffest tone when he was aroused. “Want you to make noises for me all night, Karen.”

She ground her hips down on his own again, hitting the same sweet spot, and moaned.

“Yes. Just like that. Just like that, sweetheart,” Frank breathed in her ear. While he played with her breast in his left hand, his right hand slowly found its way down her body, slipping beneath the pooled shift resting atop her thighs. Before she could clear her mind enough to see where Frank’s hand was leading him, he dipped his and into her panties and swiped one long finger along her core, making her gasp.

“Shit, Kare, so wet already.” Frank buried his head in her neck to mumble, letting his finger trail along her seam again, gathering her wetness. “Let me make you feel good.” He pressed his wet finger against her clit, and she felt her mind go blank.

“Frank,” his name on her lips was a sigh, a prayer, a blessing. “Oh God, Frank.”

He continued to swirl his finger, round and round her clit until she couldn’t take it anymore—head thrown back, hands scrambling for purchase and clutching at any part of him she could reach. Karen ground her hips down onto his hand, trying to both increase the pressure and feel his own arousal beneath her. Just when she was about to reach her peak—fall over the edge—he stopped. Karen let out a long, frustrated cry.

“Fuck. Frank. Why’d you stop?” She was panting and trying to grind her hips forward to bring back the delicious friction. Frank brought his hands to her waist to arrest her movements, nudging at her chin with his face until she opened her eyes and met his own.

“Because, Karen, when you come, I want to be inside of you,” his voice was gravelly and strained with wanting.

His words shot a deep bolt of pleasure straight to her core, sending another rush of wetness onto her thighs. This man would be the death of her.

In one swift motion, without giving her the time to catch her breath or gain her footing, Frank stood up, with Karen’s legs wrapped around his waist, and practically tossed her onto the bed. She let out a surprised laugh, bouncing on the mattress before settling among the pillows and covers. Frank smiled at her giddiness, leaning forward to press his fists into the bed.

“Glad your mattress is so comfortable—we’re going to be here for a long time,” his grin was carnal; he slowly trailed his eyes down her body as he spoke. “Take that off,” he demanded, nodding his head at Karen’s shift.

As she grabbedthe scrap of cloth that was still pooled around her waist, and yanked it—and her underwear—off. Frank moved his own hands to his jeans, slowly unbuckling his belt and pulling off what remained of his clothes.

And suddenly, he was perfectly naked before Karen. She forgot her own nudity for a moment, eyes roving over the exposed spans of his skin, starving for him. His thighs were thick with muscle, and covered in short, dark hairs; his abdomen was defined and tensed in anticipation, muscles begging to be felt and licked and enjoyed. She took in the breadth of his shoulders, and if she tilted her head slightly, from her position she could just make out the round curve of his ass. Finally, she followed the direction of his V-cut down to its destination—his arousal stood proudly from a thatch of dark hair, long, thick, and pink, swollen and glistening at the tip.

Karen felt her legs spread slightly, involuntarily, at the sight, and had never felt more wanton in her life. Frank noticed the movement, and a devilish look crossed his face.

“You want me, Karen?” He asked, taking a step forward to place his knees against the mattress, resting his hands against his thighs. She nodded, reaching out to grab at him desperately.

“Not yet,” Frank quickly grabbed her hands before they could make contact with his chest, leaning over her to press her wrists into the mattress above her head. “Keep them here.” He pinned her with a demanding stare, before leaning away from her and pulling himself up fully to kneel on the bed between her spread legs. “I want to take care you. Can I do that, Karen?” He asked.

Karen nodded her head adamantly.

“I’ve wanted you like this for too long,” Frank whispered, leaning forward until his lips were millimeters from touching the skin of her lower stomach. “Better than my imagination.”

“Frank. God.” Karen’s voice was needy, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed. “I like a little delayed gratification as much as the next girl, but can you please do something already.”

“Yes ma’am” Frank smiled, moving the last few millimeters to press an open-mouthed kiss against her stomach, right above her pubic bone.

Instantly, Karen’s back arched off the bed, and she brought a hand down to tangle in Frank’s hair.

 And suddenly, the warmth of his mouth was gone.

“Kare,” Frank chastised, reaching up to remove her hand from his hair. “You start touching me and I’m gonna lose my concentration.” He returned her arm to its position above her head. “In fact…” he paused, looking around for a moment. “Can you grab onto the headboard? Keep your hands occupied.” Karen nodded, and he lifted her under the hips, scooting her up the bed until she could wrap her hands around the wrought iron bars of the head board. “You gonna be okay there?”

“Yes,” Karen breathe out, inexplicably turned on by this turn of events.

“Good.”

And with that, Frank returned to kissing her stomach, licking and nibbling at her soft skin. She bit back a moan, turning her head to the side and burying it in her upper arm. His tongue dipped into her belly button, and her hips bucked up into his chest.

“Your skin is so soft,” Frank whispered against her skin. “Smooth.” He lowered his head further, bypassing Karen’s aching core, and latched his lips onto the top of her inner right thigh. It was torture—exquisite torture.

Karen hadn’t know how sensitive her thighs could be, as she found herself biting back sighs at his kisses. Her hands flexed and clenched at the headboard as Frank continued to languorously lick at her inner thighs, switching from one leg to another, pausing each time to let the heat of his breath hit her where she needed him most. The scrape of his teeth on her inner legs almost sent her careening over the edge. Karen didn’t even realize that she’d slowly been opening her legs wider and wider, obscenely, in a desperate effort to get his mouth where she wanted it.

Frank stopped suddenly, pulling back to look up the expanse of Karen’s body and admire his work—her chest and cheeks were flushed red, her back was arched in the air, her head was thrown back against the pillows. She looked like a woman thoroughly-fucked, and he hadn’t even entered her yet.

“You’re killing me, Frank.” Karen sounded strained. Tense and out of breath.

“Sorry.” Frank didn’t sound at all sorry, as he let his right hand wander down to lazily stroke at his erection, which looked almost painful. “Didn’t think a little foreplay would break you.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, and Karen would have responded to it snarkily, had she not been so frantically needing. “Where do you want me, Karen?”He asked, his eyes flitting down to her exposed core.

“Jesus, Frank. Do you have to ask?” Karen answered, half-exasperated, eyes still glued to his hand as it worked its way up and down his shaft, his thumb gathering the wetness that had beaded at the tip.

“ _How_ do you want me?” he amended the question, squeezing himself harder under her gaze.

“I want—” Karen could hardly think—could hardly decide how she wanted the man in front of her. All she knew was that she did. “I want your mouth on me. I want you to lick me.” The words falling from her lips sounded filthy, and Frank groaned loudly, stroking himself on last time, before removing his hand, leaning over, and resuming his position between her legs.

“Was hoping you’d say that,” he whispered, before finally licking a hot line down her slit.

Karen was sure her neighbors could hear her responsive cry, but she didn’t care. His mouth was open and hot and frantically lapping at her, his hands winding their way behind her bottom, tilting it up to give him better access.

His mouth was making love to her—that was the only way to describe it—sucking and licking wildly. He had to grip her ass tightly to keep her from bucking up into his mouth. The room was filled with obscene slurping sounds, which only served to heighten Karen’s arousal even more. When Frank began moaning, the vibrations against her intimate flesh almost had her coming undone right there.

His tongue was pure magic, swirling round and round—then swiping quickly across—her swollen clit, before dipping down to enter her. He repeated this trail again and again, agonizingly slow.

“Fuck,” Frank moaned into Karen’s dripping flesh, his voice breaking, and she noticed for the first time that he was pressing his hips into the mattress rhythmically, seeking relief for his own impossible arousal.

When he let his teeth gently drag across her clit, Karen let out a strangled yell, “Frank, I’m almost—”

And before she knew what was happening—before she could even mourn the loss of his mouth, Frank had dragged himself up Karen’s body and slammed into her, filling her to the hilt.

She cried out, an almost animal scream, which Frank matched with a guttural moan, stilling inside of her. She had been expecting that the first time he entered her it would hurt like hell—he was quite a bit larger than she’d had before, and it had been a long time. And it probably would have—were she not so wet that the sheets below her were beginning to dampen with an impressive stain.

Karen was delightfully full, stretched and expanded by him, and she could feel her inner walls gripping his length rhythmically, desperately.

 But he remained still, breathing labored, head buried in her neck.

“Are you alright?” He whispered into her skin, his voice gruff and laced with worry. He hadn’t meant to be so rough—hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding back.

“No, Frank,” Karen huffed out, bringing her hands down from the headboard to bury in his hair. “I won’t be alright until you start moving. I need you now.”

At her words, Frank bit savagely into her shoulder, pulling out quickly and slamming back into her heat. The thrust sent her scooting up the bed rapidly, and Karen had to quickly slam one of her hands against the headboard to keep her head from smacking it.

She couldn’t describe the kind of pleasure his rough thrusts were sending through her, every slam of his hips hitting something deep and primal inside of her. Scrambling for purchase, Karen used her hand pressed against the headboard to push off, meeting Frank on each thrust. Her back bowing off the bed, hips twisting upward, sending him deeper within her.

He was moaning and mumbling nonsense into her shoulder, and through the thick haze of arousal, she caught only snippets of what he was saying, mostly four letter words mixed in with iterations of her name. His voice was erotic in her ear, and Karen was so caught up trying to match his thrusts and listen to his whispered words, she didn’t even realize she was babbling similar thoughts as well.

Frank’s hands were everywhere on her, tweaking her nipples, running down her side, tangling in her hair. When he finally lifted his head from her neck to claim her mouth in a kiss, it was rough and sloppy—saliva, teeth, and tongues everywhere. Karen’s body had never felt so exquisitely used and tortured, but she could feel it all building to an end, her body pulling tight as a bow, a wave of pleasure building up from her core.

“Frank, I’m—I’m so close—” she groaned.

Frank grabbed one of her earlobes between his teeth, biting down. “Let go, Kare” he growled, suddenly pistoning his hips into her even harder and faster than before—impossibly rough. He was like a man on fire, and it felt like heaven. It only took a few more thrusts, Frank whispering something obscene in her ear, and Karen shattered around him. Her orgasm hit her so strong, she briefly felt dissociated from her body, just a whirling storm of pure and visceral pleasure. Karen could have sworn she almost blacked out for a second, coming to with her ears buzzing and her mind clouded. When she was able to shake the haze from her head, she noticed, with some surprise, that she was in a slightly new position.

Frank had shifted back onto his knees, pulling at Karen’s hips until her legs were spread wide and her ass was resting right on the apex of his lap. From her position, Karen was able to lazily stare up at him, watching the bunch and stretch of his chest and arm muscles as he thrust into her languidly, working her through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice tense.

“Mmm,” Karen stretched, arching up slightly into his gentle thrusts. “I’m liquid.” She rotated her hips in a slow circle, and Frank’s breath hitched. He was unbearably close to his own release. “Take me, Frank.”

That was all he needed.

Frank’s eyes went wild, and his body taut. His hips stuttered forward, picking up the pace until he was thrusting into her hard enough to have her groaning his name again. He moved one hand from her waist, dragging it up to cup her breast, squeezing gently. And in a few more pumps, he was spilling himself inside of her with a deep cry. Karen watched in fascination as his back arched, his hips faltering against her as his release took him in waves, and then he collapsed next to her with a sigh.

All was still for a few moments, nothing but the sound of their labored breathing breaking the silence, then: “Fuuuuck,” Frank groaned, his face buried in the pillow next to Karen’s ear. It was an appreciative exclamation, and she couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped her—she had been thinking the exact same thing

“Would it be cliché of me to ask why we didn’t do that sooner?” Karen rolled over, burying her face in Frank’s back.

“Yes.” He replied, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Plus, I already know the answer to that question.”

“Oh?” Karen gently bit into his shoulder blade.

“Yeah. Because I’m an idiot.”

Karen laughed, rolling over onto her back and throwing her arms over her head. Frank’s head popped up, and he turned to watch Karen with a smile on his face. She was gorgeous when she laughed—and she was even more gorgeous when she was laughing naked. Laying in bed. Next to him.

A deep wave of satisfaction rolled over him, settling into his gut. This was it—this was exactly what he’d wanted. Karen—happy and satisfied and within arm’s reach.

He folded his arms under the pillow, then rested his head so that he could admire her profile. She was staring up at the ceiling with a smile.

“Karen.”

She turned her head, biting her lip, to look at him.

“Yes, Frank?” There was humor in her voice. She felt buoyant—she felt like something made to float.

“I want to make sure you understood me earlier,” his voice was gentle, but serious. Very serious. “What I said in the alley.”

“Yes?” Karen nodded, telling Frank to go on.

“You have me, Karen. All of me.”

Karen rolled to her side to that she could face Frank, her nose only inches away from his own.

“You have me too, Frank.” She reached forward, snaking her hand under his pillow to grab a hold of his arm. She pulled it out gently, then flattened his palm over her heart. It was rough and calloused, but it was also warm and comforting. Frank closed his eyes. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel her heartbeat.

“Stay with me tonight.” Karen whispered it, then leaned forward the brush her lips softly against his own—just a feather-light touch.

“Of course.”

He wanted to say that he would stay with her every night, but he settled for wrapping his arms around her and tugging her against his chest.

 

Karen’s alarm went off at 5AM on the dot, and she rolled over with a groan. She didn’t even have to open her eyes to know that Frank wasn’t in bed—she’d heard him get up at 4:30, and had been trying to ignore the sounds he was making in the kitchen for the past half hour.

Rolling out of bed, she stretched with her arms high above her head until her back let out a satisfying pop. She picked up Frank’s sweater from the floor, pulling it on before stumbling into the living room.  She felt a deep sense of satisfaction, wearing that sweater. It fell about an inch under the curve of her ass, and it smelled like him—spicy and warm.

“Hey there,” Frank’s voice was rough with morning grit, and it sent an awakening wave of arousal up Karen’s spine. He was standing at the stove in nothing but his boxers, scrambling eggs. She could die happy having seen that sight.

“Morning,” she walked up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist to peer over his shoulder. “I hope all that noise you were making is worth it.”

Frank chuckled. “It’s not my fault you don’t stack your pans properly. All I did was open the cabinet and about fifty of them fell out.”

“Lies,” Karen nuzzled her nose into Frank’s neck. “I don’t even own fifty pans.”

“It’s hyperbole, Page. You’re the writer, aren’t you?” Frank turned his face, kissing the top of Karen’s head.

“It’s too early for hyperbole.”

“Mhmm,” Frank added a handful of shredded cheddar to the frying pan. “Coffee’s in the machine. Have a cup and we’ll try this conversation again.”

“You are a good man.” Karen nipped at his neck before turning around to grab a cup of much-needed caffeine.

 

Neither of them had class until 9AM, so they were able to take a leisurely breakfast, sitting across from each other at Karen’s little table, her feet resting in his lap. It had taken longer than normal for them to finish their eggs, as they kept getting distracted making eyes at each other. Which inevitably led to some early-morning kissing.

Their shower had taken much, _much_ longer.

It was unlike any morning-after she’d had before. It was comfortable—it was domestic—and suddenly, Karen could see so clearly what her future with Frank would look like. Could see a long, pleasurable stretch of early mornings laid out before them.

It was 7:30 AM by the time they were ready to leave—Karen to meet with Trish at the campus coffee shop to go over some last minute changes to her IRB proposal, and Frank to head back to his place for some fresh clothes.

Karen was buttoning up her coat by the front door while Frank laced up his boots on the couch.

“By the way, I’m taking the kids to the park after work today,” Frank stood up, yanking the leg of his jeans down to cover his boots. “Gonna help Leo practice her pitching. And Frankie’s still trying to learn to skate.”

“Sounds like fun,” Karen began winding her scarf around her neck.

“Should be,” Frank walked over, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, facing Karen. “So you coming with us?”

Karen’s hands paused in their task, and she looked up at Frank with widened eyes.

“You want me to?” She kept her voice light, though her heart was hammering heavily in her chest.

“Karen,” Frank’s voice was disapproving. “Do you really need me to answer that?”

“Well am I—,” she furrowed her brow. “Am I allowed to? Like, is Maria okay with that? Some random woman hanging around with her kids?”

“Damnit, Karen.” Frank was suddenly in front of her, grabbing onto her upper arms with both hands. There was a fierce look on his face. “This thing is serious. You and me? It’s serious. Maria knows that.”

And all she could do was kiss him—deep and slow and filled with all of the joy fit to burst out of her.

When she pulled away, Frank smiled. “Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

As they left the apartment, heading out to face a brand new day, Karen realized that she never actually got around to telling Frank that she loved him. That was okay, she decided. They had all the time in the world.

(It turned out that she wouldn’t actually get the chance to say it first. It would slip out of Frank’s mouth a week later, as he watched her pour antiseptic over Frankie Jr.’s scrapped knee. Karen would finish bandaging the boy’s wound, give him a reassuring pat, and send him on his way before turning around and jumping into his father’s arms, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you” with her head nuzzled into this neck).

 

 

 


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo. I am really sad to be finished with this. But, y'know, when it's done it's done. Leave me a comment--I might write more Kastle in the future if I can find my motivation/inspiration somewhere!

“Okay, Frank, you’re gonna have to put that down at some point.” Karen crossed her arms, leaning against the door frame of her new-old office and quirking a brow at her boyfriend.

He grunted, shaking his head. Standing in the middle of the room, he gripped the box in his arms even tighter.

Karen sighed, biting her lip.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to help me move if I knew you were going to be such a pain about it,” she rolled her eyes, pushing off of the door frame and grabbing the box from Frank’s hands. It was light—the last of her office supplies: pens, pencils, tape, high lighters, stapler. “Holding my stuff hostage isn’t going to make me change my mind.” She deposited it on her desk with a thud.

“Worth a shot,” Frank grumbled. With a chuckle, Karen turned around, casting a critical glance about the office.

 She had been impressed, the first time she’d seen the finished restoration, at how everything looked _exactly_ like it did before the flooding. They’d even kept the walls the same celery-green shade she hated, and replaced her water-logged bookshelf with an exact replica. During her 6 and a half months of displacement, she’d been half hoping that the administration would take advantage of the flooding and actually _upgrade_ the place. But they’d chosen the cheaper route, and it was still a cramped, dark, windowless, room with an awful popcorn ceiling.

It had actually been strange for Karen, walking into her old office for the first time earlier in the week—like déjà vu. Something familiar, but also new. Before the flood, she’d spent hours upon _hours_ in this room, sitting by herself grading papers or writing curriculum. At one point, this office had been her home. But now it no longer felt like home. It no longer felt like it was even _hers_.

Instead, it was a shadow of something she used to know.

She’d hoped that moving all of her belongings back to their rightful place would scrub away that feeling of strangeness. That filling the space with her books and her posters and her knick knacks would make it more comfortable. But so far, she’d had no success. It still felt _off_.

She and Frank had made five trips, moving boxes upon boxes, mostly of books, from his office to hers. Loading up a little red wagon Frank had dug out of his garage, stacking it with Karen’s things, and wheeling it the two blocks from the Physics building to the Liberal Arts Building. Her desk had already been transported by a moving team earlier in the week—it was just the little odds and ends that were left to take care of.

 “You know,” Frank shifted on his feet, “I really don’t mind if you stay in the office with me.” He’d made the argument a thousand times in the past week, but figured he’d give it one more go. “It would free up this space for Trish—it’s much bigger than the shoebox she’s working out of right now. And I have plenty of space for you.”

“Frank,” Karen sighed, stepping forward to grab him by both arms, dragging her hands up until they were resting on his shoulders.  She squeezed gently. “We’ve been over this. I need my own office, if only to hold office hours and tutoring.”

“We were making do with both of us in one room.” Frank tried not to sound petulant, but did not succeed.

“Barely,” Karen scoffed. “You’re not going to want to put up with my kids overrunning your space for the whole year. It would drive you crazy.”

“But I’d get to keep you.” Frank reached out to snag Karen around the waist, pulling her in until her body was crushed against his own. She let out a surprise “oomph”, her face smashing into the crook of his neck.

“You get to keep me regardless, Castle,” Karen laughed, pulling back so that she could look him in the eye. “You’re so dramatic. Your building is literally a three minute walk from here.”

“But you could be a three _second_ walk away,” Frank tilted his head down, his lips dangerously close to pouting territory. But Frank Castle did not pout.

Karen shook her head with a lopsided grin. “It won’t be that bad. I’ll visit you all the time. So much that you’ll get sick of me.”

“Not possible,” Frank muttered, before closing the distance between them. His lips were greedy and demanding, and Karen felt herself arching into his embrace.

He kissed like a man whose mouth was made for it. Like a man whose whole world hung on the curve of his lips—as though he were trying to pour entire galaxies into Karen with every swipe of his tongue.

There was a desperation in the feel of his mouth against hers—hot and wild—that took Karen’s breath away. She’d thought that, after a while, his kisses would change—grow less clawing, less frenzied, less hungry. She’d assumed that his touch was so electric because it was so _new_. But it had been a little over a month since that night at Josie’s, and his lips on hers still felt like worship.

Frank let his hands drift down Karen’s back, slowly, until they were resting right under her ass, at the tops of her thighs. Suddenly, he yanked upwards, and her legs were around his waist.

He buried his head in the curve of her neck, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin of her collar bone, as he walked forward to deposit her on top of her desk.

Crossing her ankles behind his back, Karen used her legs to jerk him forward. She let out a heated groan as his hips make contact with her center through the material of their jeans. Tilting her head to the side, she gave Frank more access to her tender flesh, grinding her hips against his in wanton need.

“Feelin’ feisty?” Frank smiled, his lips brushing Karen’s neck lightly enough to make her shiver.

“Mmm, remind me why we said we weren’t going to have office sex?” Karen’s voice came out as a pant. She ran her hands up Frank’s back, dragging her nails as she went, to tangle in his hair. She pulled slightly until he lifted his head to look at her. With her eyes anchored to his own, she circled her hips against his insistently, until he let out a curse.

“Shit, Kare.” He let his head fall back, took a deep breath, and exerted an inhuman amount of self-control to reach down and arrest her hips with his hands. “We agreed no office sex because there are too many people with spare keys who could walk in on us.” He let his head loll forward until his nose brushed against her own. Karen shifted her hips, and heard the crinkling of paper under her butt. Looking down, she let out a short laugh.

“What’s the rule about having sex on top of a letter your daughter wrote me?” She lifted her hips to slide the piece of paper from underneath her. It was a thank you note from Lisa, written after Karen had used some connections to get her entire baseball team seats behind the dugout at a university game.

“That’s a hard no,” Frank made a face, grabbing the paper from Karen and placing it behind her, far away from their activities.

“But we can still make out, right?” Karen was looking at Frank’s lips in anticipation, bringing her hands up to massage his scalp.

“I think that should be okay.”

“Hmm. Then think of it this way—two offices means two places on campus we can sneak away to neck like teenagers.” Karen’s hair fell over her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side, smiling.

“I can live with that,” Frank breathed out before grabbing her up in another kiss.

 

They lasted around 3 weeks in separate offices before all of Karen’s belongings slowly started migrating back to Frank’s place. It started, innocuously enough, with her grading. She’d come by in the evening with a stack of essays, sit at the coffee table, and do some marking, wiling away the hours with Frank. But, inevitably, she’d started leaving her papers behind (especially if the heated looks they couldn’t help sending each other’s way led to making out on his desk, which led to beating a hasty retreat back to her apartment for some quality alone time). Eventually, stacks of Karen’s forgotten papers began piling up all over the office, so Frank went out and purchased a new file cabinet just to hold them all.

Then it was various office supplies that just started popping up. How could Karen possibly do her grading without the proper pens and high lighters and sticky notes? At first, Frank had started picking up her left behind utensils and sticking them in a drawer of his desk. But eventually the drawer began to grow over-full. So he’d dragged Karen to a flea market one weekend and made her pick out a new desk for herself. She’d fallen in love with a vintage secretary that had required a few weekends of sanding and re-staining, and which now had a home in the corner of the office where her old desk once sat. Frank had been relieved to dump out his “Karen Drawer” and declutter his own space.

After that, it was the books—then the scarves and gloves and small pieces of Karen’s wardrobe, then the binders and spirals and notebooks.

Until, one day, Frank looked up and realized that there were more of Karen’s books in his office than his own. In fact, there was more of Karen’s _everything_ in his office. He’d grinned, shaken his head, and gone back to his work. He knew she’d come back.

All of Dr. Page’s students soon learned that the office in the Liberal Arts building was only hers in name—the only time she ever spent behind her actual, officially-designated desk, was during mandatory office hours. At any other time, she could be found in Dr. Castle’s office.

Right where she belonged.


End file.
